THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Memoirs  of  an 

American  Prima  Donna 


By 

Clara  Louise  Kellogg 

(Mme.  Strakosch) 


With  40  Illustrations 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New   York  and  London 
fmfcfeerbocfcer    press 
1913 


COPYRIGHT.  1913 

BY 
CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  STRAKOSCH 


Ube  UnCcfecrbocfeec  pteas,  flew  Sorb 


WITH    AFFECTION   AND   DEEPEST   APPRECIATION   OF   HER   WORTH 

AS   BOTH    A   RARE   WOMAN    AND   A   RARER   FRIEND 

I   INSCRIBE   THIS   RECORD   OF   MY 

PUBLIC   LIFE   TO 


JEANNETTE   L.   GILDER 


*"—»       f   ^^ 


FOREWORD 

THE  name  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg  is  known  to  the 
immediate  generation  chiefly  as  an  echo  of  the 
past.  Yet  only  thirty  years  ago  it  was  written  of  her, 
enthusiastically  but  truthfully,  that  "no  living  singer 
needs  a  biography  less  than  Miss  Clara  Louise  Kellogg ; 
and  nowhere  in  the  world  would  a  biography  of  her  be 
so  superfluous  as  in  America,  where  her  name  is  a  house- 
hold word  and  her  illustrious  career  is  familiar  in  all  its 
triumphant  details  to  the  whole  people." 

The  past  to  which  she  belongs  is  therefore  recent; 
it  is  the  past  of  yesterday  only,  thought  of  tenderly  by 
our  fathers  and  mothers,  spoken  of  reverently  as  a 
poignant  phase  of  their  own  ephemeral  youth,  one  of 
their  sweet  lavender  memories.  The  pity  is  (although 
this  is  itself  part  of  the  evanescent  charm),  that  the 
singer's  best  creations  can  live  but  in  the  hearts  of  a 
people,  and  the  fame  of  sound  is  as  fugitive  as  life  itself. 

A  record  of  such  creations  is,  however,  possible 
and  also  enduring;  while  it  is  also  necessary  for  a  just 
estimate  of  the  development  of  civilisations.  As  such, 
this  record  of  her  musical  past — presented  by  Clara 
Louise  Kellogg  herself — will  have  a  place  in  the  annals 
of  the  evolution  of  musical  art  on  the  North  American 
continent  long  after  every  vestige  of  fluttering  personal 
reminiscence  has  vanished  down  the  ages.  A  word  of 
appreciation  with  regard  to  the  preparation  of  this 
record  is  due  to  John  Jay  Whitehead,  Jr.,  whose 
diligent  chronological  labours  have  materially  assisted 
the  editor. 


vi  Fore-word 

Clara  Louise  Kellogg  came  from  New  England  stock 
of  English  heritage.  She  was  named  after  Clara 
Novello.  Her  father,  George  Kellogg,  was  an  inventor 
of  various  machines  and  instruments  and,  at  the  time 
of  her  birth,  was  principal  of  Sumter  Academy,  Sumter- 
ville,  S.  C.  Thus  the  famous  singer  was  acclaimed  in 
later  years  not  only  as  the  Star  of  the  North  (the  role 
of  Catherine  in  Meyerbeer's  opera  of  that  name  being 
one  of  her  achievements)  but  also  as  "the  lone  star  of 
the  South  in  the  operatic  world."  She  first  sang 
publicly  in  New  York  in  1861  at  an  evening  party  given 
by  Mr.  Edward  Cooper,  the  brother  of  Mrs.  Abram 
Hewitt.  This  was  the  year  of  her  debut  as  Gilda  in 
Verdi's  opera  of  Rigoletto  at  the  Academy  of  Music  in 
New  York  City.  When  she  came  before  her  country- 
men as  a  singer,  she  was  several  decades  ahead  of  her 
musical  public,  for  she  was  a  lyric  artist  as  well  as  a 
singer.  America  was  not  then  producing  either  singers 
or  lyric  artists;  and  in  fact  we  were,  as  a  nation,  but 
just  getting  over  the  notion  that  America  could  not 
produce  great  voices.  We  held  a  very  firm  contempt 
for  our  own  facilities,  our  knowledge,  and  our  taste  in 
musical  matters.  If  we  did  discover  a  rough  diamond, 
we  had  to  send  it  to  Italy  to  find  out  if  it  were  of  the  first 
water  and  to  have  it  polished  and  set.  Nothing  was 
so  absolutely  necessary  for  our  self-respect  as  that  some 
American  woman  should  arise  with  sufficient  American 
talent  and  bravery  to  prove  beyond  all  cavil  that  the 
country  was  able  to  produce  both  singers  and  artists. 

For  rather  more  than  twenty -five  years,  from  her 
appearance  as  Gilda  until  she  quietly  withdrew  from 
public  life,  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  appropriate 
moment  for  so  doing  had  come,  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 
filled  this  need  and  maintained  her  contention.  She 


Fore-word  vii 

was  educated  in  America,  and  her  career,  both  in  Amer- 
ica and  abroad,  was  remarkable  in  its  consistent  tri- 
umphs. When  Gounod's  Faust  was  a  musical  and  an 
operatic  innovation,  she  broke  through  the  Italian 
traditions  of  her  training  and  created  the  role  of  Mar- 
guerite according  to  her  own  beliefs;  and  throughout 
her  later  characterisations  in  Italian  opera,  she  sus- 
tained a  wonderfully  poised  attitude  of  independence 
and  of  observance  with  regard  to  these  same  traditions. 
In  London,  in  St.  Petersburg,  in  Vienna,  as  well  as  in 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  United  States,  she  gained 
a  recognition  and  an  appreciation  in  opera,  oratorio,  and 
concert,  second  to  none:  and  when,  later,  she  organised 
an  English  Opera  Company  and  successfully  piloted  it 
on  a  course  of  unprecedented  popularity,  her  personal 
laurels  were  equally  supreme. 

In  1887,  Miss  Kellogg  married  Carl  Strakosch,  who 
had  for  some  time  been  her  manager.  Mr.  Strakosch  is 
the  nephew  of  the  two  well-known  impresarios,  Maurice 
and  Max  Strakosch.  After  her  marriage,  the  public 
career  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg  virtually  ended.  The 
Strakosch  home  is  in  New  Hartford,  Connecticut,  and 
Mrs.  Strakosch  gave  to  it  the  name  of  "  Elpstone"  be- 
cause of  a  large  rock  shaped  like  an  elephant  that  is  the 
most  conspicuous  feature  as  one  enters  the  grounds 
through  the  poplar-guarded  gate.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Strakosch  are  very  fond  of  their  New  Hartford  home, 
but,  the  Litchfield  County  climate  in  winter  being 
severe,  they  usually  spend  their  winters  in  Rome.  They 
have  also  travelled  largely  in  Oriental  countries. 

In  1912,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Strakosch  celebrated  their 
Silver  Wedding  at  Elpstone.  On  this  occasion,  the 
whole  village  of  New  Hartford  was  given  up  to  festivi- 
ties, and  friends  came  from  miles  away  to  offer  their 


viii  Foreword 

congratulations.  Perhaps  the  most  pleasant  incident  of 
the  celebration  was  the  presentation  of  a  silver  loving 
cup  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Strakosch  by  the  people  of  New 
Hartford  in  token  of  the  affectionate  esteem  in  which 
they  are  both  held. 

The  woman,  Clara  Louise  Kellogg,  is  quite  as  distinct 
a  personality  as  was  the  prima  donna.  So  thoroughly, 
indeed,  so  fundamentally,  is  she  a  musician  that  her 
knowledge  of  life  itself  is  as  much  a  matter  of  harmony 
as  is  her  music.  She  lives  her  melody;  applying  the 
basic  principle  that  Carlyle  has  expressed  so  admirably 
when  he  says : ' '  See  deeply  enough  and  you  see  musically. " 

ISABEL  MOORE. 

WOODSTOCK,  N.  Y. 
August,  1913 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER       •  PAGE 

I.  MY  FIRST  NOTES       .....         i 

II.  GIRLHOOD          .         .         .         .         .         .11 

III.  "LIKE  A  PICKED  CHICKEN!"     ...       22 

IV.  A  YOUTHFUL  REALIST        ....       33 
V.  LITERARY  BOSTON      .....       43 

VI.  WAR  TIMES 55 

VII.  STEPS  OF  THE  LADDER       ....  62 

VIII.  MARGUERITE     ......  77 

IX.  OPERA  COMIQUE         .....  90 

X.     ANOTHER    SEASON    AND    A    LITTLE    MORE 

SUCCESS 99 

XI.  THE  END  OF  THE  WAR      .         .         .  .no 

XII.  AND  so — TO  ENGLAND  !               .         .  .119 

XIII.  AT  HER  MAJESTY'S            .         .         .  .129 

XIV.  ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL        .          .          .  .139 
XV.  MY  FIRST  HOLIDAY  ON  THE  CONTINENT  .     152 

XVI.  FELLOW- ARTISTS        .         .         .         .         .163 

XVII.  THE  ROYAL  CONCERTS    AT    BUCKINGHAM 

PALACE        ......     177 


x  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  THE  LONDON  SEASON  .         .         .         .188 

XIX.  HOME  AGAIN        .....     200 

XX.  "YOUR  SINCERE  ADMIRER"          .         .212 

XXI.  ON  THE  ROAD      .....     227 

XXII.  LONDON  AGAIN     .....     235 

XXIII.  THE  SEASON  WITH  LUCCA     .         .         .     245 

XXIV.  ENGLISH  OPERA  .....     254 
XXV.  ENGLISH  OPERA — Continued  .         .         .     266 

XXVI.  AMATEURS  AND  OTHERS         .         .         .276 

;  XXVII.  "THE  THREE  GRACES"        .         .         .289 

XXVIII.  ACROSS  THE  SEAS  AGAIN      .         .         .     300 

XXIX.  TEACHING  AND  THE  HALF-TALENTED     .     309 

XXX.  THE  WANDERLUST,  AND  WHERE  IT  LED 

ME  ....  .  324 

XXXI.  SAINT  PETERSBURG       ....     334 

XXXII.  GOOD-BYE  TO  RUSSIA — AND  THEN  ?        .     346 

XXXIII.  THE  LAST  YEARS  OF  MY  PROFESSIONAL 

CAREER    ......     357 

XXXIV.  CODA    .  .     370 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACK 


CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  STRAKOSCH          Frontispiece 
LYDIA  ATWOOD      .......        2 

Maternal  Grandmother  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 

CHARLES  ATWOOD 4 

Maternal  Grandfather  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 
From  a  Daguerreotype 

GEORGE  KELLOGG.         .         .         .         .         .         .10 

Father  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 
From  a  photograph  by  Gurney  &  Son 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG,  AGED  THREE          .         .       12 

From  a  photograph  by  Black  &  Case 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG,  AGED  SEVEN  .         .       14 

From  a  photograph  by  Black  &  Case 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  A  GIRL      ...      20 

From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  A  YOUNG  LADY  .       28 

From  a  photograph  by  Black  &  Case 

BRIGNOLI,  1865     .......       42 

From  a  photograph  by  C.  Silvy 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL,  IN  1861  ....       46 

From  a  photograph  by  Brady 

CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN,  1861  .....       52 

From  a  photograph  by  Silsbee,  Case  &  Co. 


xii  Illustrations 

PAGE 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  FIGLIA        ...      56 

From  a  photograph  by  Black  &  Case 

GENERAL  HORACE  PORTER  .....   58 

From  a  photograph  by  Pach  Bros. 

Muzio.          .         .          .          .          ....       66 

From  a  photograph  by  Gurney  &  Son 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  LUCIA         ...       72 

From  a  photograph  by  Elliott  &  Fry 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  MARTHA     ...      74 

From  a  photograph  by  Turner 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  MARGUERITE,  1865      .       82 

From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  MARGUERITE,  1864      .       88 

From  a  silhouette  by  Ida  Waugh 

GOTTSCHALK.  .  IO6 

From  a  photograph  by  Case  &  Getchell 

JANE  ELIZABETH  CROSBY 108 

Mother  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 
From  a  tintype 

.      116 
HENRY  G.  STEBBINS       .         .         .         .         .         .122 

From  a  photograph  by  Grillet  &  Co. 

ADELINA  PATTI      .         .         .         .         .         .         .130 

From  a  photograph  by  Fredericks 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  LINDA,  1868       .         .     134 

From  a  photograph  by  Stereoscopic  Co. 

MR.  JAMES  MCHENRY 138 

From  a  photograph  by  Brady 


Illustrations  xiii 

PAGE 

CHRISTINE  NILSSON,  AS  QUEEN  OF  THE  NIGHT.        .     146 

From  a.  photograph  by  Pierre  Petit 

DUKE  OF  NEWCASTLE   .         .        .         .         .         .188 

From  a  photograph  by  John  Burton  &  Sons 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  CARMEN     .         .         .230 

From  a  photograph 

SIR  HENRY  IRVING  AND  ELLEN  TERRY  AS  THE  VICAR 

AND  OLIVIA 234 

From  a  photograph  by  Window  &  Grove 

FIRST  EDITION  OF  THE  "FAUST"  SCORE,  PUBLISHED 
IN  1859  BY  CHOUSENS  OF  PARIS,  NOW  IN  THE 
BOSTON  PUBLIC  LIBRARY  ....  240 

NEWSPAPER  PRINT  OF  THE  KELLOGG-LUCCA  SEASON    250 

Drawn  by  Jos.  Keppler 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  IN  MIGNON      .         .         .     252 

From  a  photograph  by  Mora 

ELLEN  TERRY 284 

From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

COLONEL  HENRY  MAPLESON  .....     290 

From  a  photograph  by  Downey 

CLARA  LOUISE  KELLOGG  AS  AIDA  ....     292 

From  a  photograph  by  Mora 

FAUST     BROOCH    PRESENTED    TO    CLARA    LOUISE 

KELLOGG     .......     298 

CARL  STRAKOSCH 364 

From  a  photograph  by  H.  W.  Barnett 

LETTER  FROM  EDWIN    BOOTH    TO   CLARA    LOUISE 

KELLOGG 366 

"ELPSTONE,"  NEW  HARTFORD,  CONNECTICUT          .     370 


Memoirs  of 
An  American  Prima  Donna 


CHAPTER  I 

MY  FIRST  NOTES 

I  WAS  born  in  Sumterville,  South  Carolina,  and  had 
a  negro  mammy  to  take  care  of  me,  one  of  the  real 
old-fashioned  kind,  of  a  type  now  almost  gone.  She 
used  to  hold  me  in  her  arms  and  rock  me  back  and  forth, 
and  as  she  rocked  she  sang.  I  don't  know  the  name  of 
the  song  she  crooned;  but  I  still  know  the  melody,  and 
have  an  impression  that  the  words  were: 

"Hey,  Jim  along, — Jim  along  Josy; 
Hey,  Jim  along, — Jim  along  Joe! " 

She  used  to  sing  these  two  lines  over  and  over,  so 
that  I  slept  and  waked  to  them.  And  my  first  musical 
efforts,  when  I  was  just  ten  months  old,  were  to  try  to 
sing  this  ditty  in  imitation  of  my  negro  mammy. 

When  my  mother  first  heard  me  she  became  appre- 
hensive. Yet  I  kept  at  it;  and  by  the  time  I  was  a 
year  old  I  could  sing  it  so  that  it  was  quite  recognisable. 
I  do  not  remember  this  period,  of  course,  but  my  mother 


2  A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

often  told  me  about  it  later,  and  I  am  sure  she  was  not 
telling  a  fairy  story. 

There  is,  after  all,  nothing  incredible  or  miraculous 
about  the  fact,  extraordinary  as  it  certainly  is.  We 
are  not  surprised  when  the  young  thrush  practises  a 
trill.  And  in  some  people  the  need  for  music  and 
the  power  to  make  it  are  just  as  instinctive  as  they  are 
in  the  birds.  What  effects  I  have  achieved  and  what 
success  I  have  found  must  be  laid  to  this  big,  living 
fact:  music  was  in  me,  and  it  had  to  find  expression. 

My  music  was  honestly  come  by,  from  both  sides  of 
the  house.  When  the  family  moved  north  to  New  Eng- 
land and  settled  in  Birmingham,  Connecticut, — it  is 
called  Derby  now — my  father  and  mother  played  in  the 
little  town  choir,  he  a  flute  and  she  the  organ.  They 
were  both  thoroughly  musical  people,  and  always  kept 
up  with  musical  affairs,  making  a  great  many  sacrifices 
all  their  lives  to  hear  good  singers  whenever  any  sort 
of  opportunity  offered.  As  for  my  maternal  grand- 
mother— she  was  a  woman  with  a  man's  brain.  A 
widow  at  twenty-three,  with  no  money  and  three  child- 
ren, she  chose,  of  all  ways  to  support  them,  the  busi- 
ness of  cotton  weaving;  going  about  Connecticut  and 
Massachusetts,  setting  up  looms — cotton  gins  they  were 
called — and  being  very  successful.  She  was  a  good 
musician  also,  and,  in  later  years,  after  she  had  married 
my  grandfather  and  was  comfortably  off,  people  begged 
her  to  give  lessons;  so  she  taught  thorough-base,  in  that 
day  and  generation!  Pause  for  a  moment  to  consider 
what  that  meant,  in  a  time  when  the  activity  of  women 
was  very  limited  and  unrecognised.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  the  granddaughter  of  a  woman  who  could  master 
and  teach  the  science  of  thorough-base  at  such  a  period 
should  be  born  with  music  in  her  blood? 


Lydia  Atwood 

Maternal  Grandmother  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 


My  First  Notes  3 

My  other  grandmother,  my  father's  mother,  was 
musical,  too.  She  had  a  sweet  voice,  and  was  the  so- 
prano of  the  church  choir. 

Everyone  knew  I  was  naturally  musical  from  my 
constant  attempts  to  sing,  and  from  my  deep  attention 
when  anyone  performed  on  any  instrument,  even  when 
I  was  so  little  that  I  could  not  reach  the  key-board  of 
the  piano  on  tip-toe.  That  particular  piano,  I  remem- 
ber, was  very  old-fashioned—one  of  the  square  box- 
shaped  sort — and  stood  extremely  high. 

One  day  my  grandmother  said  to  my  mother: 

"I  do  believe,  Jane,  if  we  lifted  that  baby  up  to  the 
piano,  she  could  play!" 

Mother  said :     "Oh,  pshaw ! ' ' 

But  they  did  lift  me  up,  and  I  did  play.  I  played  not 
only  with  my  right  hand  but  also  with  my  left  hand; 
and  I  made  harmonies.  Probably  they  were  not  in 
any  way  elaborate  chords,  but  they  were  chords,  and 
they  harmonised.  I  have  known  some  grown-up 
musicians  whose  chords  did  n't ! 

I  was  three  then,  and  a  persistent  baby,  already 
detesting  failure.  I  never  liked  to  try  to  do  anything, 
even  at  that  age,  in  which  I  might  be  unsuccessful, 
and  so  learned  to  do  what  I  wanted  to  do  as  soon  as 
possible. 

My  mother  was  gifted  in  many  ways.  She  used 
to  paint  charmingly;  and  has  told  me  that  when  she 
was  a  young  girl  and  could  not  get  paint  brushes,  she 
made  her  own  of  hairs  pulled  from  their  old  horse's 
tail. 

My  maternal  grandfather  was  not  at  all  musical. 
He  used  to  say  that  to  him  the  sweetest  note  on  the 
piano  was  when  the  cover  went  down!  Yet  it  was  he 
who  accidentally  discovered  a  fortunate  possession  of 


4  j\n  American  Prima  Donna 

mine — something  that  has  remained  in  my  keeping 
ever  since,  and,  like  many  fortunate  gifts,  has  at  times 
troubled  as  much  as  it  has  consoled  me. 

One  day  he  was  standing  by  the  piano  in  one  room 
and  I  was  playing  on  the  floor  in  another.  He  idly 
struck  a  note  and  asked  my  mother: 

"What  note  is  that  I  am  striking?     Guess!" 

"How  can  I  tell?"  said  my  mother.  "No  one  could 
tell  that." 

"Why,  mother!"  I  cried  from  the  next  room,  "don't 
you  know  what  note  that  is?  " 

"I  do  not,"  said  my  mother,  "and  neither  do  you. " 

"I  do,  too,"  I  declared.  "It  's  the  first  of  the  three 
black  keys  going  up!" 

It  was,  in  fact,  F  sharp,  and  in  this  manner  it  was 
discovered  that  I  had  what  we  musicians  call  "absolute 
pitch";  the  ability  to  place  and  name  a  note  the 
moment  it  is  heard.  As  I  have  said,  this  has  often 
proved  to  be  a  very  trying  gift,  for  it  is,  and  always  has 
been  impossible  for  me  to  decipher  a  song  in  a  different 
key  from  that  in  which  it  is  written.  If  it  is  written 
in  C,  I  hear  it  in  C;  and  conceive  the  hideous  discord 
in  my  brain  while  the  orchestra  or  the  pianist  renders 
it  in  D  flat!  When  I  see  a  "Do, "  I  want  to  sing  it  as 
a  "Do, "  and  not  as  a  "Re. " 

This  episode  must  have  been  when  I  was  about  five 
years  old,  and  soon  afterward  I  began  taking  regular 
piano  lessons.  I  remember  my  teacher  quite  well.  He 
used  to  come  out  from  New  Haven  by  the  Naugatuck 
railway — that  had  just  been  completed  and  was  a  great 
curiosity — for  the  purpose  of  instructing  a  class  of 
which  I  was  a  member. 

I  had  the  most  absurd  difficulty  in  learning  my  notes. 
I  could  play  anything  by  ear,  but  to  read  a  piece  of 


Charles  Atwood 

Maternal  Grandfather  of  Clara  Louise 

Kellogg 
From  a  daguerreotype 


My  First  Notes  5 

music  and  find  the  notes  on  the  piano  was  another 
matter.  My  teacher  struggled  with  this  odd  incapacity ; 
but  I  used  to  cheat  him  shockingly. 

"Do  play  this  for  me!"  I  would  beg.  "Just  once, 
so  I  can  tell  how  it  goes. " 

In  spite  of  this  early  slowness  in  music  reading,  or, 
perhaps  because  of  it,  when  I  did  learn  to  read,  I 
learned  to  read  thoroughly.  I  could  really  play;  and 
I  cannot  over-estimate  the  help  this  has  been  to  me  all 
my  life.  It  is  so  essential — and  so  rare — for  a  prima 
donna  to  be  not  only  a  fine  singer  but  also  a  good 
musician. 

There  was  then  no  idea  of  my  becoming  a  singer, 
All  my  time  was  given  to  the  piano  and  to  perfecting 
myself  in  playing  it.  But  my  parents  made  every  effort 
to  have  me  hear  fine  singing,  for  the  better  cultivation 
of  my  musical  taste,  and  I  am  grateful  to  them  for 
doing  so,  as  I  believe  that  singing  is  largely  imitative 
and  that,  while  singers  need  not  begin  to  train  their 
voices  very  early,  they  should  as  soon  as  possible  famil- 
iarise themselves  with  good  singing  and  with  good 
music  generally.  The  wise  artist  learns  from  many 
sources,  some  of  them  quite  unexpected  ones.  Patti 
once  told  me  that  she  had  caught  the  trick  of  her  best 
"turn  "  from  listening  to  Faure,  the  baritone. 

My  father  and  mother  went  to  New  York  during  the 
Jenny  Lind  furore  and  carried  me  in  their  arms  to  hear 
her  big  concert.  I  remember  it  clearly,  and  just  the 
way  in  which  she  tripped  on  to  the  stage  that  night  with 
her  hair,  as  she  always  wore  it,  drawn  down  close  over 
her  ears — a  custom  that  gave  rise  to  the  popular  report 
that  she  had  no  ears. 

That  concert  is  my  first  musical  recollection.  I 
was  much  amused  by  the  baritone  who  sang  Figaro  lei 


6  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

Figaro  qua  from  The  Barber.  I  thought  him  and 
his  song  immensely  funny ;  and  everyone  around  us  was 
in  a  great  state  over  me  because  I  insisted  that  the 
drum  was  out  of  tune.  I  was  really  dreadfully  annoyed 
by  that  drum,  for  it  was  out  of  tune!  I  remember 
Jenny  Lind  sang: 

"  Birdling,  why  sing'st  thou  in  the  forest  wild? 
Say  why, — say  why, — say  why! " 

and  one  part  of  it  sounded  exactly  like  the  call  of  a 
bird.  Sir  Jules  Benedict,  who  was  always  her  accom- 
panist, once  told  me  many  years  later  in  London  that 
she  had  a  "hole"  in  her  voice.  He  said  that  he  had 
been  obliged  to  play  her  accompaniments  in  such  a  way 
as  to  cover  up  certain  notes  in  her  middle  register. 
A  curious  admission  to  come  from  him,  I  thought,  for 
few  people  knew  of  the  "hole." 

Only  once  during  my  childhood  did  I  sing  in  public, 
and  that  was  in  a  little  school  concert,  a  song  Come 
Buy  My  Flowers,  dressed  up  daintily  for  the  part  and 
carrying  a  small  basketful  of  posies  of  all  kinds.  When 
I  had  finished  singing,  a  man  in  the  audience  stepped 
down  to  the  footlights  and  held  up  a  five-dollar  bill. 

"To  buy  your  flowers!"  said  he. 

That  might  be  called  my  first  professional  perform- 
ance! The  local  paper  said  I  had  talent.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  don't  remember  much  about  the  occasion; 
but  I  do  remember  only  too  well  a  dreadful  incident  that 
occurred  immediately  afterward  between  me  and  the 
editor  of  the  aforesaid  local  paper, — Mr.  Newson  by 
name. 

I  had  a  pet  kitten,  and  it  went  to  sleep  in  a  rolled 
up  rug  beside  the  kitchen  door  one  day,  and  the  cook 


My  First  Notes  7 

stepped  on  it.  The  kitten  was  killed,  of  course,  and 
the  affair  nearly  killed  me.  I  was  crying  my  eyes  out 
over  my  poor  little  pet  when  that  editor  chanced  along. 
And  he  made  fun  of  me ! 

I  turned  on  him  in  the  wildest  fury.  I  really  would 
have  killed  him  if  I  could. 

"Laugh,  will  you!"  I  shrieked,  beside  myself. 
"Laugh  .'laugh!  laugh!" 

He  said  afterwards  that  I  absolutely  frightened  him, 
I  was  so  small  and  so  tragic. 

"I  knew  then,"  he  declared,  "that  that  child  had 
great  emotional  and  dramatic  possibilities  in  her.  Why, 
she  nearly  burned  me  up!" 

Years  later,  when  I  was  singing  in  St.  Paul,  the 
Dispatch  printed  this  story  in  an  interview  with  Mr. 
Newson  himself.  He  made  a  heartless  jest  of  the  allit- 
eration— "Kellogg's  Kitten  Killed" — and  referred  to 
my  "inexpressible  expression  of  sorrow  and  disgust" 
as  I  cried,  "Laugh,  will  you!"  Said  Mr.  Newson  in 
summing  up : 

"It  was  a  real  tragedic  act!" 

Mr.  Newson 's  description  of  me  as  a  child  is:  "A 
black-eyed  little  girl,  somewhat  wayward — as  she  was 
an  only  child — kind-hearted,  affectionate,  self-reliant, 
and  very  independent!" 

Well — sight-reading  became  so  easy  to  me,  presently, 
that  I  could  not  realise  any  difficulty  about  it.  To  see 
a  note  was  to  be  able  to  sing  it ;  and  I  was  often  puzzled 
when  people  expressed  surprise  at  my  ability.  When 
I  was  about  eleven,  someone  took  me  to  Hartford  to 
"show  me  off"  to  William  Babcock,  a  teacher  and  a 
thorough  musician.  He  got  out  some  of  his  most 
difficult  German  songs;  songs  far  more  intricate  than 
anything  I  had  ever  before  seen,  of  course,  and  was 


8  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

frankly  amazed  to  find  that  I  read  them  just  about  as 
readily  as  the  simple  airs  to  which  I  was  accustomed. 

My  childhood  was  very  quiet  and  peaceful,  rather 
commonplace  in  fact,  except  for  music.  Reading  was 
a  pleasure,  too,  and,  as  my  father  was  a  student  and  had 
a  wonderful  library,  I  had  all  the  books  I  wanted.  I 
was  literally  brought  up  on  Carlyle  and  Chaucer. 
I  must  have  been  a  rather  queer  child,  in  some  ways. 
Even  as  a  little  thing  I  liked  clothes.  When  only  nine 
years  old  I  conceived  a  wild  desire  for  a  pair  of  kid 
gloves.  Kid  gloves  were  a  sign  of  great  elegance  in 
those  days.  At  last  my  clamours  were  successful  and 
I  was  given  a  pair  at  Christmas.  They  were  a  source 
of  great  pride,  and  I  wore  them  to  church,  where  I  did 
my  little  singing  in  the  choir  with  the  others.  By  this 
time  I  could  read  any  music  at  sight  and  would  sit  up 
and  chirp  and  peep  away  quite  happily.  As  I  spread 
my  kid-gloved  hands  out  most  conspicuously,  what  I 
had  not  noticed  became  very  noticeable  to  everyone 
else :  the  fingers  were  nearly  two  inches  too  long.  And 
the  choir  laughed  at  me.  I  was  dreadfully  mortified 
and  sat  there  crying,  until  the  kind  contralto  comforted 
me. 

In  my  young  days  the  negro  minstrels  were  a  great 
diversion.  They  were  amusing  because  they  were  so 
typical.  There  are  none  left,  but  in  the  old  times  they 
were  delightful,  and  it  is  a  thousand  pities  that  they 
have  passed  away.  All  the  essence  of  slavery,  and  the 
efforts  of  the  slaves  to  amuse  themselves,  were  in  their 
quaint  performances.  The  banjo  was  almost  unknown 
to  us  in  the  North,  and  when  it  found  its  way  to  New 
England  it  was  a  genuine  novelty.  I  was  simply  fas- 
cinated by  it  as  a  little  girl  and  used  to  go  to  all  the 
minstrel  shows,  and  sit  and  watch  the  men  play.  Their 


My  First  Notes  9 

banjos  had  five  strings  only  and  were  played  with  the 
back  of  the  nail, — not  like  a  guitar.  This  was  the  only 
way  to  get  the  real  negro  twang.  There  was  no  refine- 
ment about  such  playing,  but  I  loved  it.  I  said : 

"I  believe  I  could  play  that  if  I  had  one!" 

My  father,  the  dignified  scholar,  was  horrified. 

"When  a  banjo  comes  in,  I  go  out,"  said  he. 

At  last  a  friend  gave  me  one,  and  I  watched  and 
studied  the  darkies  until  I  had  picked  up  the  trick  of 
playing  it,  and  soon  acquired  a  real  negro  touch.  And 
I  also  acquired  some  genuine  darky  songs.  One,  of 
which  I  was  particularly  fond,  was  called:  Hottes1 
co'ny1  ever  eat. 

I  really  believe  I  was  the  first  American  girl  who  ever 
played  a  banjo !  In  a  few  years  along  came  Lotta,  and 
made  the  banjo  a  great  feature. 

Banjo  music  has  natural  syncopation,  and  its  pecu- 
liarities undoubtedly  originated  the  " rag- time"  of 
our  present-day  imitations.  There  was  one  song  that 
I  learned  from  hearing  a  man  sing  it  who  had,  in  turn, 
caught  it  from  a  darky,  that  has  never  to  my  knowledge 
been  published  and  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  collection. 

It  began : 


It'll     set     this    dar  -  key    era    -    ry,  I    don't  know  what   I'll      do, 

and  remains  with  me  in  my  repertoire  unto  this  day. 
I  have  been  known  to  sing  it  with  certain  effect — for 
when  I  am  asked,  now,  to  sing  it,  my  husband  leaves 
the  room!  The  last  time  I  sang  it  was  only  a  couple 
of  years  ago  in  Norfolk.  Herbert  Witherspoon  said: 

"Listen  to  that  high  C!" 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "that  is  the  last  remnant — the  very 
last!" 


io  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

But  this  chapter  is  to  be  about  my  first  notes,  not 
my  last  ones. 

In  1857,  my  father  failed,  the  beautiful  books  were 
sold  and  we  went  to  New  York  to  live.  Almost 
directly  afterward  occurred  one  of  the  most  important 
events  of  my  career.  Although  I  was  not  being  trained 
for  a  singer,  but  as  a  musician  in  general,  I  could  no 
more  help  singing  than  I  could  held  breathing,  or  sleep- 
ing, or  eating;  and,  one  day,  Colonel  Henry  G.  Stebbins, 
a  well-known  musical  amateur,  one  of  the  directors  of 
the  Academy  of  Music,  was  calling  on  my  father  and 
heard  me  singing  to  myself  in  an  adjoining  room.  Then 
and  there  he  asked  to  be  allowed  to  have  my  voice 
cultivated;  and  so,  when  I  was  fourteen,  I  began  to 
study  singing.  The  succeeding  four  years  were  the 
hardest  worked  years  of  my  life. 

To  young  girls  who  are  contemplating  vocal  study, 
I  always  say  that  it  is  mostly  a  question  of  what  one  is 
willing  to  give  up. 

If  you  really  are  prepared  to  sacrifice  all  the  fun  that 
your  youth  is  entitled  to ;  to  work,  and  to  deny  yourself ; 
to  eat  and  sleep,  not  because  you  are  hungry  or  sleepy, 
but  because  your  strength  must  be  conserved  for  your 
art;  to  make  your  music  the  whole  interest  of  your 
existence; — if  you  are  willing  to  do  all  this,  you  may 
have  your  reward. 

But  music  will  have  no  half  service.  It  has  to  be 
all  or  nothing. 

In  Rostand's  play,  they  ask  Chanticleer: 

"What  is  your  life?" 

And  he  answers: 

"My  song." 

"What  is  your  song?" 

"My  life." 


George  Kellogg 

Father  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 
Photograph  by  Gurney  &  Son 


CHAPTER  II 

GIRLHOOD 

IN  taking  up  vocal  study,  however,  I  had  no  fixed 
intention  of  going  on  the  stage.  All  I  decided  was 
to  make  as  much  as  I  could  of  myself  and  of  my  voice. 
Many  girls  I  knew  studied  singing  merely  as  an  accom- 
plishment. In  fact,  the  girl  who  aspired  professionally 
was  almost  unknown. 

I  first  studied  under  a  Frenchman  named  Millet,  a 
graduate  of  the  Conservatory  of  Paris,  who  was  teach- 
ing the  daughters  of  Colonel  Stebbins  and,  also,  the 
daughter  of  the  Baron  de  Trobriand.  Later,  I  worked 
with  Manzocchi,  Rivarde,  Errani  and  Muzio,  who  was 
a  great  friend  of  Verdi. 

Most  of  my  fellow-students  were  charming  society 
girls.  Ella  Porter  and  President  Arthur's  wife  were 
with  me  under  Rivarde,  and  Anna  Palmer  who  married 
the  scientist,  Dr.  Draper.  The  idea  of  my  going  on 
the  stage  would  have  appalled  the  families  of  these 
girls.  In  those  days  the  life  of  the  theatre  was  regarded 
as  altogether  outside  the  pale.  One  did  n't  know  stage 
people;  one  could  n't  speak  to  them,  nor  shake  hands 
with  them,  nor  even  look  at  them  except  from  a  safe 
distance  across  the  footlights.  There  were  no  "decent 
people  on  the  stage";  how  often  did  I  hear  that 
foolish  thing  said! 

ii 


12  An  American.  Prima  Donna 

It  is  odd  that  in  that  most  musical  and  artistic 
country,  Italy,  much  the  same  prejudice  exists  to  this 
day.  I  should  never  think  of  telling  a  really  great 
Italian  lady  that  I  had  been  on  the  stage;  she  would 
immediately  think  that  there  was  something  queer 
about  me.  Of  course  in  America  all  that  was  changed 
some  time  ago,  after  England  had  established  the 
precedent.  People  are  now  pleased  not  only  to  meet 
artists  socially,  but  to  lionise  them  as  well.  But 
when  I  was  a  girl  there  was  a  gulf  as  deep  as  the  Bottom- 
less Pit  between  society  and  people  of  the  theatre; 
and  it  was  this  gulf  that  I  knew  would  open  between 
myself  and  the  friends  of  whom  I  was  really  fond  as, 
in  time,  I  realised  that  I  was  improving  sufficiently 
to  justify  some  definite  ambitions.  My  work  was 
steady  and  unremitting,  and  by  the  time  I  began 
study  with  Muzio  my  mind  was  pretty  nearly  made 
up. 

A  queer,  nervous,  brusque,  red-headed  man  was 
Muzio,  from  the  north  of  Italy,  where  the  type  always 
seems  so  curiously  German.  Besides  being  one  of  the 
conductors  of  the  Opera,  he  organised  concert  tours, 
and  promised  to  see  that  I  should  have  my  chance. 
It  was  said  that  he  had  fled  from  political  disturbances 
in  Italy,  but  this  I  never  heard  verified.  Certainly 
he  was  quite  a  big  man  in  the  New  York  operatic 
world  of  his  day,  and  was  a  most  cultivated  musician, 
with  the  "Italian  traditions"  of  opera  at  his  fingers' 
ends.  It  is  to  Muzio,  incidentally,  that  I  owe  my 
trill. 

Oddly  enough,  I  had  great  difficulty  with  that  trill 
for  three  years;  but  in  four  weeks'  study  he  taught 
me  the  trick, — for  it  is  a  trick,  like  so  many  other  big 
effects.  I  believe  I  got  it  finally  by  using  my  sub- 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg.     Aged  Three 

From  a  photograph  by  Black  &  Case 


GirlKood  13 

conscious  mind.  Don't  you  know  how,  after  striving 
and  straining  for  something,  you  at  last  relax  and  let 
some  inner  part  of  your  brain  carry  on  the  battle? 
And  how,  often  and  often,  it  is  then  that  victory 
comes?  So  it  was  with  my  trill;  and  so  it  has  been 
with  many  difficult  things  that  I  have  succeeded  in 
since  then. 

No  account  of  my  education  would  be  complete 
without  a  mention  of  the  great  singers  whom  I  heard 
during  that  receptive  period;  that  is,  the  years  between 
fourteen  and  eighteen,  before  my  professional  debut. 
The  first  artist  I  heard  when  I  was  old  enough  really  to 
appreciate  good  singing  was  Louisa  Pine,  who  sang  in 
New  York  in  second-rate  English  Opera  with  Harrison, 
of  whom  she  was  deeply  enamoured  and  who  usually 
sang  out  of  tune.  We  did  not  then  fully  understand 
how  well-schooled  and  well-trained  she  was;  and  her 
really  fine  qualities  were  only  revealed  to  me  much 
later  in  a  concert. 

Then  there  was  D'Angri,  a  contralto  who  sang 
Rossini  to  perfection.  Italiani  in  Algeria  was  pro- 
duced especially  for  her.  About  that  same  time  Mme. 
de  la  Grange  was  appearing,  together  with  Mme.  de  la 
Borde,  a  light  and  colorature  soprano,  something  very 
new  in  America.  Mme.  de  la  Borde  sang  the  Queen 
to  Mme.  de  la  Grange's  Valentine  in  Les  Huguenots, 
and  had  a  French  voice — if  I  may  so  express  it — light, 
and  of  a  strange  quality.  The  French  claimed  that 
she  sang  a  scale  of  commas,  that  is,  a  note  between 
each  of  our  chromatic  intervals.  She  may  have;  but 
it  merely  sounded  to  the  listener  as  if  she  was  n't 
singing  the  scale  clearly.  Mme.  de  la  Grange  was  a 
sort  of  goddess  to  me,  I  remember.  I  heard  her  first 
in  Trovatore  with  Brignoli  and  Amodio. 


14  An  American  Prima  Donna 

Piccolomini  arrived  here  a  couple  of  years  later 
and  I  heard  her,  too.  She  was  of  a  distinguished 
Italian  family,  and,  considering  Italy's  aristocratic 
prejudices,  it  is  strange  that  she  should  have  been  an 
opera  singer.  She  made  Traviata,  in  which  she  had 
already  captured  the  British  public,  first  known  to  us: 
yet  she  was  an  indifferent  singer  and  had  a  very  limited 
repertoire.  She  received  her  adulation  partly  because 
people  did  n't  know  much  then  about  music.  Adula- 
tion it  was,  too.  She  made  $5000  a  month,  and 
America  had  never  before  imagined  such  an  operatic 
salary.  She  looked  a  little  like  Lucca;  was  small  and 
dark,  and  decidedly  clever  in  comedy.  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  see  her  in  Pergolese's  delightful,  if  archaic, 
opera,  La  Serva  Padrona — "The  Maid  as  Mistress  "- 
and  she  proved  herself  to  be  an  exceptional  comedienne. 
She  was  excellent  in  tragedy,  too. 

Brignoli  was  the  first  great  tenor  I  ever  heard; 
and  Amodio  the  first  famous  baritone.  Brignoli — but 
all  the  world  knows  what  Brignoli  was !  As  for  Amodio ; 
he  had  a  great  and  beautiful  voice;  but,  poor  man,  what 
a  disadvantage  he  suffered  under  in  his  appearance. 
He  was  so  fat  that  he  was  grotesque,  he  was  absurdly 
short,  and  had  absolutely  no  saving  grace  as  to  phy- 
sique. He  played  Mazetto  to  Piccolomini's  Zerlina,  and 
the  whole  house  roared  when  they  came  on  dancing. 
I  heard  nearly  all  the  great  singers  of  my  youth; 
all  that  were  to  be  heard  in  New  York,  at  any  rate, 
except  Grisi.  I  missed  Grisi,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
because  on  the  one  occasion  when  I  was  asked  to  hear 
her  sing,  with  Mario,  I  chose  to  go  to  a  children's 
party  instead.  I  am  much  ashamed  of  this  levity, 
although  I  was,  to  be  sure,  only  ten  years  old  at  the 
time. 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg.     Aged  Seven 

Photograph  by  Black  &  Case 


Girl  Hood  15 

Adelina  Patti  I  heard  the  year  before  my  own  debut. 
She  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  then,  when  she  appeared  over 
here  in  Lucia,  and  carried  the  town  by  storm.  What 
a  voice!  I  had  never  dreamed  of  anything  like  it. 
But,  for  that  matter,  neither  had  anyone  else. 

What  histrionic  skill  I  ever  developed  I  attribute 
to  the  splendid  acting  that  I  saw  so  constantly  during 
my  girlhood.  And  what  actors  and  actresses  we  had! 
As  I  look  back,  I  wonder  if  we  half  appreciated  them. 
It  is  certainly  true  that,  viewed  comparatively,  we 
must  cry  "there  were  giants  in  those  days!"  Think 
of  Mrs.  John  Wood  and  Jefferson  at  the  Winter  Garden ; 
of  Dion  Boucicault  and  his  wife,  Agnes  Robertson;  of 
Laura  Keene — a  revelation  to  us  all — and  of  the  French 
Theatre,  which  was  but  a  little  hole  in  the  wall,  but 
the  home  of  some  exquisite  art  (I  was  brought  up  on  the 
Raouls  in  French  pantomime) ;  and  all  the  wonderful 
old  Wallack  Stock  Company!  Think  of  the  elder 
Sothern,  and  of  John  Brougham,  and  of  Charles  Walcot, 
and  of  Mrs.  John  Hoey,  Mrs.  Vernon,  and  Mary 
Gannon, — that  most  beautiful  and  perfect  of  all  in- 
genues! Those  people  would  be  world-famous  stars  if 
they  were  playing  to-day ;  we  have  no  actors  or  com- 
panies like  them  left.  Not  even  the  Comedie  Francaise 
ever  had  such  a  gathering. 

It  may  be  imagined  what  an  education  it  was  for 
a  young  girl  with  stage  aspirations  to  see  such  work 
week  after  week.  For  I  was  taken  to  see  everyone 
in  everything,  and  some  of  the  impressions  I  received 
then  were  permanent.  For  instance,  Matilda  Heron 
in  Camille  gave  me  a  picture  of  poor  Marguerite 
Gautier  so  deep  and  so  vivid  that  I  found  it  invaluable, 
years  later,  when  I  myself  came  to  play  Violetta  in 
Traviata. 


16  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

I  saw  both  Ristori  and  Rachel  too.  The  latter  I 
heard  recite  on  her  last  appearance  in  America.  It 
was  the  Marseillaise,  and  deeply  impressive.  Personally, 
I  loved  best  her  Moineau  de  Lesbie.  Shall  I  ever  forget 
her  enchanting  reading  of  the  little  scene  with  the 
jewels? — Suis-je  belle? 

The  father  of  one  of  my  fellow  students  was,  as  I 
have  said  before,  Baron  de  Trobriand,  a  very  charming 
man  of  the  old  French  aristocracy.  He  came  often 
to  the  home  of  Colonel  Stebbins  and  always  showed  a 
great  deal  of  interest  in  my  development.  He  knew 
Rachel  very  well;  had  known  her  ever  since  her  girl- 
hood indeed,  and  always  declared  that  I  was  the 
image  of  her.  As  I  look  at  my  early  portraits,  I  can 
see  it  myself  a  little.  In  all  of  them  I  have  a  desperately 
serious  expression  as  though  life  were  a  tragedy.  How 
well  I  remember  the  Baron  and  his  wonderful  stories 
of  France!  He  had  some  illustrious  kindred,  among 
them  the  Duchesse  de  Bern,  and  we  were  never  tired 
of  his  tales  concerning  her. 

I  find,  to-day,  as  I  look  through  some  of  my  old 
press  notices,  that  nice  things  were  always  said  of  me 
as  an  actress.  Once,  John  Wallack,  Lester's  father, 
came  to  hear  me  in  Fra  Diavolo,  and  exclaimed: 

"I  wish  to  God  that  girl  would  lose  her  voice!" 

He  wanted  me  to  give  up  singing  and  go  on  the 
dramatic  stage;  and  so  did  Edwin  Booth.  I  have  a 
letter  from  Edwin  Booth  that  I  am  more  proud  of 
than  almost  anything  I  possess.  But  these  incidents 
happened,  of  course,  later. 

From  all  I  saw  and  all  I  heard  I  tried  to  learn  and 
to  keep  on  learning.  And  so  I  prepared  for  the  time 
of  my  own  initial  bow  before  the  public.  As  I  gradually 
studied  and  developed,  I  began  to  feel  more  and  more 


Girlhood  17 

sure  that  I  was  destined  to  be  a  singer.  I  felt  that  it 
was  my  life  and  my  heritage;  that  I  was  made  for  it, 
and  that  nothing  else  could  ever  satisfy  me.  And 
Muzio  told  me  that  I  was  right.  In  another  six 
months  I  would  be  ready  to  make  my  debut.  It  was 
a  serious  time,  when  I  faced  the  future  as  a  public 
singer,  but  I  was  very  happy  in  the  contemplation  of 
it. 

That  summer  I  took  a  rest,  preparatory  to  my  first 
season, — how  thrillingly  professional  that  sounded,  to 
be  sure! — and  it  was  during  that  summer  that  I  had 
one  of  the  most  pleasant  experiences  of  my  girlhood, — 
one  really  delightful  and  young  experience,  such  as 
other  girls  have, — a  wonderful  change  from  the  hard- 
working, serious  months  of  study.  I  went  to  West 
Point  for  a  visit.  In  spite  of  my  sober  bringing-up,  I 
was  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  and  loved  the  days  spent  in 
a  place  filled  with  the  military  glamour  that  every 
girl  adores. 

West  Point  was  more  primitive  then  than  it  is  now. 
But  it  was  just  as  much  fun.  I  danced,  and  watched 
the  drill,  and  walked  about,  and  made  friends  with  the 
cadets, — to  whom  the  fact  that  they  were  entertaining 
a  budding  prima  donna  was  both  exciting  and  interest- 
ing— and  had  about  the  best  time  I  ever  had  in  my 
life. 

Looking  back  now,  however,  I  can  feel  a  shadow  of 
sadness  lying  over  the  memory  of  all  that  happy  visit. 
We  were  just  on  the  eve  of  war,  little  as  we  young 
people  thought  of  it,  and  many  of  the  merry,  good- 
looking  boys  I  danced  with  that  summer  fell  at  the 
front  within  the  year.  Some  of  them  entered  the 
Union  Army  the  following  spring  when  war  was  de- 
clared, and  some  went  South  to  serve  under  the  Stars 


1 8  An  .American  Prime  Donna 

and  Bars.  Among  the  former  was  Alec  McCook — 
"Fighting  McCook,"  as  he  was  called.  Lieutenant 
McCreary  was  Southern,  and  was  killed  early  in  the 
war.  So,  also,  was  the  son  of  General  Huger — the 
General  Huger  who  was  then  Postmaster  General 
and  later  became  a  member  of  the  Cabinet  of  the 
Confederacy. 

It  is  interesting  to  consider  that  West  Point,  at 
the  time  of  which  I  write,  was  a  veritable  hotbed  of 
conspiracy.  The  Southerners  were  preparing  hard  and 
fast  for  action;  the  atmosphere  teemed  with  plotting, 
so  that  even  I  was  vaguely  conscious  that  something 
exceedingly  serious  was  going  on.  The  Commandant 
of  the  Post,  General  Delafield,  was  an  officer  of  strong 
Southern  sympathies  and  later  went  to  fight  in  Dixie 
land.  When  the  war  did  finally  break  out,  nearly  all 
the  ammunition  was  down  South;  and  this  had  been 
managed  from  West  Point. 

Of  course,  all  was  done  with  great  circumspection. 
Buchanan  was  a  Democratic  president ;  and  the  Demo- 
crats of  the  South  sent  a  delegation  to  West  Point  to 
try  to  get  the  commanding  officers  to  use  their  influence 
in  reducing  the  military  course  from  four  to  three 
years.  This  at  least  was  their  ostensible  mission,  and 
it  made  an  excellent  excuse  as  well  as  offered  great 
opportunities  for  what  we  Federal  sympathisers  would 
call  treason,  but  which  they  probably  considered  was 
justified  by  patriotism.  Indeed,  James  Buchanan  was 
allotted  a  very  difficult  part  in  the  political  affairs  of 
the  day ;  and  the  censure  he  received  for  what  is  called 
his  "vacillation"  was  somewhat  unjust.  He  held  that 
the  question  of  slavery  and  its  abolition  was  not  a 
national,  but  a  local  problem;  and  he  never  took  any 
firm  stand  about  it.  But  the  conditions  were  bewilder- 


Girlhood  19 

ingly  new  and  complex,  and  statesmen  often  suffer 
from  their  very  ability  to  look  on  both  sides  of  a 
question. 

Jefferson  Davis  was  then  at  West  Point;  and,  as  for 
"Mrs.  Jeff" — I  always  believed  she  was  a  spy.  She 
had  her  niece  and  son  with  her  at  the  Point,  the 
latter,  "Jeff,  Jr.,"  then  a  child  of  five  or  six  years 
old.  He  had  the  worst  temper  I  ever  imagined  in  a 
boy;  and  I  am  ashamed  to  relate  that  the  officers  took 
a  wicked  delight  in  arousing  and  exhibiting  it.  He 
used  to  sit  several  steps  up  on  the  one  narrow  stairway 
of  the  hotel  and  swear  the  most  horrible,  hot  oaths  ever 
heard,  getting  red  in  the  face  with  fury.  Alec  McCook, 
assistant  instructor  and  a  charming  fellow  of  about 
thirty,  would  put  him  on  a  bucking  donkey  that  was 
there  and  say: 

"Now  then,  lad,  don't  you  let  him  put  you  off!" 

And  the  "lad"  would  sit  on  the  donkey,  turning  the 
air  blue  with  profanity.  But  one  thing  can  be  said  for 
him:  he  did  stick  on! 

Lieutenant  Horace  Porter,  who  was  among  my 
friends  of  that  early  summer,  was  destined  to  serve 
with  distinction  on  the  Northern  side.  I  met  him  not 
long  ago,  a  dignified,  distinguished  General ;  and  it  was 
difficult  to  see  in  him  the  high-spirited,  young  lieutenant 
of  the  old  Point  days. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "Mrs.  Jeff  Davis  sent  for 
me  to  come  and  see  her  when  she  was  in  New  York! 
Of  course  I  did  n't  go!" 

He  had  not  forgotten.  One  does  not  forget  the 
things  that  happened  just  before  the  war.  The  great 
struggle  burned  them  too  deeply  into  our  memories. 

Nothing  would  satisfy  the  cadets,  who  were  aware 
that  I  was  preparing  to  go  on  the  stage  as  a  profes- 


2O  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

sional  singer,  but  that  I  should  sing  for  them.  I 
was  only  too  delighted  to  do  so,  but  I  did  n't  want  to 
sing  in  the  hotel.  So  they  turned  their  "hop-room" 
into  a  concert-hall  for  the  occasion  and  invited  the 
officers  and  their  friends,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Jeff  Davis, 
who  tried  her  best  to  prevent  the  ball-room  from  being 
given  to  us  for  our  musicale.  She  did  not  attend; 
but  the  affair  made  her  exceedingly  uncomfortable, 
for  she  disliked  me  and  was  jealous  of  the  kindness 
and  attention  I  received  from  everyone.  She  always 
referred  to  me  as  "that  singing  girl!" 

As  I  have  said,  many  of  those  attractive  West  Point 
boys  and  officers  were  killed  in  the  war  so  soon  to  break 
upon  us.  Others,  like  General  Porter,  have  remained 
my  friends.  A  few  I  have  kept  in  touch  with  only  by 
hearsay.  But  throughout  the  Civil  War  I  always  felt 
a  keener  and  more  personal  interest  in  the  battles 
because,  for  a  brief  space,  I  had  come  so  close  to  the 
men  who  were  engaged  in  them;  and  the  sentiment 
never  passed. 

Ever  and  ever  so  many  years  after  that  visit  to  West 
Point,  a  note  came  behind  the  scenes  to  me  during  one 
of  my  performances,  and  with  it  was  a  mass  of  exquisite 
flowers.  "Please  wear  one  of  these  flowers  to-night!" 
the  note  begged  me.  It  was  from  one  of  the  cadets  to 
whom  I  had  sung  so  long  before,  but  whom  I  had  never 
seen  since. 

I  wore  the  flower:  and  I  put  my  whole  soul  into  my 
singing  that  night.  For  that  little  episode  of  my  girl- 
hood, the  meeting  with  those  eager  and  plucky  young 
spirits  just  before  our  great  national  crisis,  has  always 
been  close  to  my  heart.  As  for  the  three  dark  years 
that  followed — ah,  well, — I  never  want  to  read  about 
the  war  now. 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  a  Girl 

From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 


GirlHood  21 

It  was  almost  time  for  my  debut,  and  there  was  still 
something  I  had  to  do.  To  my  sheltered,  puritanically 
brought  up  consciousness,  there  could  be  no  two  views 
among  conventional  people  as  to  the  life  I  was  about 
to  enter  upon.  I  knew  all  about  it.  So,  a  few  weeks 
before  I  was  to  make  my  professional  bow  to  the 
public,  I  called  my  girl  friends  together,  the  companions 
of  four  years'  study,  and  I  said  to  them: 

"Girls,  I  've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  on  the  stage! 
I  know  just  how  your  people  feel  about  it,  and  I  want 
to  tell  you  now  that  you  need  n't  know  me  any  more. 
You  need  n't  speak  to  me,  nor  bow  to  me  if  you  meet 
me  in  the  street.  I  shall  quite  understand,  and  I 
shan't  feel  a  bit  badly.  Because  I  think  the  day  will 
come  when  you  will  be  proud  to  know  me!" 


CHAPTER  III 
"LIKE  A  PICKED  CHICKEN" 

BEFORE  my  debut  in  opera,  Muzio  took  me  out  on 
a  concert  tour  for  a  few  weeks.  Colson  was  the 
prima  donna,  Brignoli  the  tenor,  Ferri  the  baritone, 
and  Susini  the  basso.  Susini  had,  I  believe,  distin- 
guished himself  in  the  Italian  Revolution.  His  name 
means  plums  in  Italian,  and  his  voice  as  well  as  his 
name  was  rich  and  luscious. 

I  was  a  general  utility  member  of  the  company,  and 
sang  to  fill  in  the  chinks.  We  sang  four  times  a  week, 
and  I  received  twenty -five  dollars  each  time — that  is, 
one  hundred  dollars  a  week — not  bad  for  inexperienced 
seventeen,  although  Muzio  regarded  the  tour  for  me 
as  merely  educational  and  part  of  my  training. 

My  mother  travelled  with  me,  for  she  never  let  me 
out  of  her  sight.  Yet,  even  with  her  along,  the  expe- 
rience was  very  strange  and  new  and  rather  terrifying. 
I  had  no  knowledge  of  stage  life,  and  that  first  tournee 
was  comprised  of  a  series  of  shocks  and  surprises,  most 
of  them  disillusioning. 

We  opened  in  Pittsburg,  and  it  was  there,  at  the 
old  Monongahela  House,  that  I  had  my  first  exhibition 
of  Italian  temperament,  or,  rather,  temper! 

When  we  arrived,  we  found  that  the  dining-room 
was  officially  closed.  We  were  tired  out  after  a  long 
hard  trip  of  twenty-four  hours,  and,  of  course,  almost 


44  LiKe  a  Picked  CKicKen  "  23 

starved.  We  got  as  far  as  the  door,  where  we  could 
look  in  hungrily,  but  it  was  empty  and  dark.  There 
were  no  waiters;  there  was  nothing,  indeed,  except 
the  rows  of  neatly  set  tables  for  the  next  meal. 

Brignoli  demanded  food.  He  was  very  fond  of 
eating,  I  recall.  And,  in  those  days,  he  was  a  sort  of 
little  god  in  New  York,  where  he  lived  in  much  luxury. 
When  affairs  went  well  with  him,  he  was  not  an  un- 
amiable  man;  but  he  was  a  selfish  egotist,  with  the 
devil's  own  temper  on  occasion. 

The  landlord  approached  and  told  us  that  the  dinner 
hour  was  past,  and  that  we  could  not  get  anything  to 
eat  until  the  next  meal,  which  would  be  supper.  And 
oh!  if  you  only  knew  what  supper  was  like  in  the 
provincial  hotel  of  that  day! 

Brignoli  was  wild  with  wrath.  He  would  start  to 
storm  and  shout  in  his  rage,  and  would  then  suddenly 
remember  his  voice  and  subside,  only  to  begin  again  as 
his  anger  rose  in  spite  of  himself.  It  was  really  amus- 
ing, though  I  doubt  if  anyone  appreciated  the  joke  at 
the  moment. 

At  last,  as  the  landlord  remained  quite  unmoved, 
Brignoli  dashed  into  the  room,  grabbed  the  cloth  on 
one  of  the  tables  near  the  door  and  pulled  it  off — dishes, 
silver,  and  all!  The  crash  was  terrific,  and  naturally 
the  china  was  smashed  to  bits. 

"You  '11  have  to  pay  for  that!"  cried  the  landlord, 
indignantly. 

"Pay  for  it!"  gasped  Brignoli,  waving  his  arms  and 
fairly  dancing  with  rage,  "of  course  I  '11  pay  for  it — 
just  as  I  '11  pay  for  the  dinner,  if— 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  landlord,  in  a  new  tone, 
"you  will  pay  extra  for  the  dinner,  if  we  are  willing  to 
serve  it  for  you  now?" 


24  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

"Dio  mio,  yes!"  cried  Brignoli. 

The  landlord  stood  and  gaped  at  him. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  in  the  first  place?"  he 
asked  with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  pity,  and  went  off 
to  order  the  dinner. 

When  will  the  American  and  the  Italian  tempera- 
ments begin  to  understand  each  other! 

Brignoli  was  not  only  a  fine  singer  but  a  really  good 
musician.  He  told  me  that  he  had  given  piano  lessons 
in  Paris  before  he  began  to  sing  at  all.  But  of  his 
absolute  origin  he  would  never  speak.  He  was  a 
handsome  man,  with  ears  that  had  been  pierced  for 
ear-rings.  This  led  me  to  infer  that  he  had  at  some 
time  been  a  sailor,  although  he  would  never  let  anyone 
mention  the  subject.  Anyhow,  I  always  thought  of 
Naples  when  I  looked  at  him. 

Most  stage  people  have  their  pet  superstitions. 
There  seems  to  be  something  in  their  make-up  that 
lends  itself  to  an  interest  in  signs.  But  Brignoli  had  a 
greater  number  of  singular  ones  than  any  person  I  ever 
met.  He  had,  among  other  things,  a  mascot  that  he 
carried  all  over  the  country.  This  was  a  stuffed  deer's 
head,  and  it  was  always  installed  in  his  dressing-room 
wherever  he  might  be  singing.  When  he  sang  well, 
he  would  come  back  to  the  room  and  pat  the  deer's 
head  approvingly.  When  he  was  not  in  voice,  he 
would  pound  it  and  swear  at  it  in  Italian. 

Brignoli  lived  for  his  voice.  He  adored  it  as  if  it 
were  some  phenomenon  for  which  he  was  in  no  sense 
responsible.  And  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  this  is  not 
the  right  point  of  view  for  a  singer.  He  always  took 
tremendous  pains  with  his  voice  and  the  greatest 
possible  care  of  himself  in  every  way,  always  eating 
huge  quantities  of  raw  oysters  each  night  before  he 


"  LiKe  a  PicKed  ChicKen  "  25 

sang.  The  story  is  told  of  him  that  one  day  he  fell 
off  a  train.  People  rushed  to  pick  him  up,  solicitous 
lest  the  great  tenor's  bones  were  broken.  But  Brignoli 
had  only  one  fear.  Without  waiting  even  to  rise  to 
his  feet,  he  sat  up,  on  the  ground  where  he  had  fallen, 
and  solemnly  sang  a  bar  or  two.  Finding  his  voice 
uninjured,  he  burst  into  heartfelt  prayers  of  thanks- 
giving, and  climbed  back  into  the  car. 

Brignoli  only  just  missed  being  very  great.  But 
he  had  the  indolence  of  the  Neapolitan  sailor,  and  he 
was,  of  course,  sadly  spoiled.  Women  were  always 
crazy  about  him,  and  he  posed  as  an  elegante.  Years 
afterward,  when  I  heard  of  his  death,  I  never  felt  the 
loss  of  any  beautiful  thing  as  I  did  the  loss  of  his  voice. 
The  thought  came  to  me: — "and  he  has  n't  been  able 
to  leave  it  to  anyone  as  a  legacy " 

But  to  return  to  our  concert  tour. 

I  remember  that  the  concert  room  in  Pittsburg  was 
over  the  town  market.  That  was  what  we  had  to 
contend  with  in  those  primitive  days!  Imagine  our 
little  company  of  devoted  and  ambitious  artists  trying 
to  create  a  musical  atmosphere  one  flight  up,  while 
they  sold  cabbages  and  fish  downstairs ! 

The  first  evening  was  an  important  event  for  me, 
my  initial  public  appearance,  and  I  recall  quite  dis- 
tinctly that  I  sang  the  Cavatina  from  Linda  di  Cha- 
mounix — which  I  was  soon  to  sing  operatically — and 
that  I  wore  a  green  dress.  Green  was  an  unusual 
colour  in  gowns  then.  Our  young  singers  generally 
chose  white  or  blue  or  pink  or  something  insipid; 
but  I  had  a  very  definite  taste  in  clothes,  and  liked 
effects  that  were  not  only  pretty  but  also  individual 
and  becoming. 

Speaking  of  clothes,  I  learned  on  that  first  experi- 


26  A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

mental  tour  the  horrors  of  travel  when  it  comes  to 
keeping  one's  gowns  fresh.  I  speedily  acquired  the 
habit,  practised  ever  since,  of  carrying  a  big  crash 
cloth  about  with  me  to  spread  on  stages  where  I  was 
to  sing.  This  was  not  entirely  to  keep  my  clothes 
clean,  important  as  that  was.  It  was  also  for  the  sake 
of  my  voice  and  its  effect.  Few  people  know  that  the 
floor-covering  on  which  a  singer  stands  makes  a  very 
great  difference.  On  carpets,  for  instance,  one  simply 
cannot  get  a  good  tone. 

Just  before  I  went  on  for  that  first  concert,  Madame 
Colson  stopped  me  to  put  a  rose  in  my  hair,  and  said 
to  me: 

"Smile  much,  and  show  your  teeth!" 

After  the  concert  she  supplemented  this  counsel 
with  the  words: 

"Always  dress  your  best,  and  always  smile,  and 
always  be  gracious!" 

I  never  forgot  the  advice. 

The  idea  of  pretty  clothes  and  a  pretty  smile  is 
not  merely  a  pose  nor  an  artificiality.  It  is  likewise 
carrying  out  a  spirit  of  courtesy.  Just  as  a  hostess 
greets  a  guest  cordially  and  tries  to  make  her  feel  at 
ease,  so  the  tactful  singer  tries  to  show  the  people  who 
have  come  to  hear  her  that  she  is  glad  to  see  them. 

Pauline  Colson  was  a  charming  artist,  a  French 
soprano  of  distinction  in  her  own  country  and  always 
delightful  in  her  work.  She  had  first  come  to  America 
to  sing  in  the  French  Opera  in  New  Orleans  where,  for 
many  years,  there  had  been  a  splendid  opera  season 
each  winter.  She  had  just  finished  her  winter's  work 
there  when  some  northern  impresario  engaged  her 
for  a  brief  season  of  opera  in  New  York;  and  it  was  at 
the  termination  of  this  that  Muzio  engaged  her  for  our 


"  LiKe  a  Picked  CKicKen  "  27 

concert  tour.  She  was  one  of  the  few  artists  who 
rebelled  against  the  bad  costuming  then  prevalent; 
and  it  was  said  that  for  more  than  one  of  her  roles  she 
made  her  gowns  herself,  to  be  sure  that  they  were 
correct.  It  was  her  example  that  fired  me  in  the 
revolutionary  steps  I  was  to  take  later  with  regard 
to  my  own  costumes. 

Our  next  stop  was  Cincinnati — Cincinnati,,  as  it  was 
called!  I  had  there  one  of  the  shocks  of  my  life. 
The  leading  newspaper  of  the  city,  in  commenting  on 
our  concert,  said  of  me  that  "this  young  girl's  parents 
ought  to  remove  her  from  public  view,  do  her  up  in 
cotton  wool,  nourish  her  well,  and  not  allow  her  to 
appear  again  until  she  looks  less  like  a  picked  chicken" ! 

No  one  said  anything  about  my  voice!  Indeed,  I 
got  almost  no  encouragement  before  we  reached  Detroit, 
and  I  recall  that  I  cried  a  good  part  of  the  way  between 
the  two  cities  over  my  failure  in  Cincinnati.  But  in 
Detroit  Colson  was  taken  ill,  so  I  had  a  chance  to  do 
the  prima  donna  work  of  the  occasion.  And  I  profited 
by  the  chance,  for  it  was  in  Detroit  that  an  audience 
first  discovered  that  I  had  some  nascent  ability. 

I  must  have  been  an  odd,  young  creature — just  five 
feet  and  four  inches  tall,  and  weighing  only  one  hundred 
and  four  pounds.  I  was  frail  and  big-eyed,  and 
wrapped  up  in  music  (not  cotton  wool),  and  exceed- 
ingly childlike  for  my  age.  I  knew  nothing  of  life,  for 
my  puritanical  surroundings  and  the  way  in  which  I 
had  been  brought  up  were  developing  my  personality 
very  slowly. 

That  was  a  hard  tour.  Indeed,  all  tours  were  hard 
in  those  days.  Travelling  accommodations  were  limited 
and  uncomfortable,  and  most  of  the  hotels  were  very 
bad.  Trains  were  slow,  and  connections  uncertain, 


28  An  American  Prima  Donna 

and  of  course  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  Pullman  or, 
much  less,  a  dining-car.  Sometimes  we  had  to  sit  up 
all  night  and  were  not  able  to  get  anything  to  eat,  not 
infrequently  arriving  too  late  for  the  meal  hour  of  the 
hotel  where  we  were  to  stop.  The  journeys  were  so 
long  and  so  difficult  that  they  used  to  say  Pauline 
Lucca  always  travelled  in  her  nightgown  and  a  black 
velvet  wrapper. 

All  through  that  tour,  as  during  every  period  of  my 
life,  I  was  working  and  studying  and  practising  and 
learning :  trying  to  improve  my  voice,  trying  to  develop 
my  artistic  consciousness,  trying  to  fit  myself  in  a 
hundred  ways  for  my  career.  Work  never  frightened 
me ;  there  was  always  in  me  the  desire  to  express  myself 
— and  to  express  that  self  as  fully  and  as  variously  as 
I  might  have  opportunity  for  doing. 

It  sometimes  seems  to  me  that  one  of  the  strangest 
things  in  this  world  is  the  realisation  that  there  is 
never  time  to  perfect  everything  in  us;  that  we  carry 
seeds  in  our  souls  that  cannot  flower  in  one  short  life. 
Perhaps  Paradise  will  be  a  place  where  we  can  develop 
every  possibility  and  become  our  complete  selves. 

In  one's  brain  and  one's  soul  lies  the  power  to  do 
almost  anything.  I  believe  that  the  psychological 
phenomena  we  hear  so  much  about  are  nothing  but  un- 
discovered forces  in  ourselves.  I  am  not  a  spiritualist. 
I  do  not  care  for  so-called  supernatural  manifestations. 
Many  of  my  friends  have  been  interested  in  such 
matters,  and  I  was  taken  to  the  celebrated  "Stratford 
Knockings"  and  other  mediumistic  demonstrations 
when  I  was  a  mere  child;  but  it  has  never  seemed  to 
me  that  the  marvels  I  encountered  came  from  an 
outside  spiritual  agency.  I  believe,  profoundly,  that, 
one  and  all,  they  are  the  workings  of  forces  in  us  that 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  a  Young  Lady 

From  a  photograph  by  Black  &  Case 


"  LiKe  a  PicKed  ChicKen  "  29 

we  have  not  yet  learned  to  develop  fully  nor  to  use 
wisely. 

I  never  did  anything  in  my  life  without  study. 
The  ancient  axiom  that  "what  is  worth  doing  at  all  is 
worth  doing  well"  is  more  of  a  truth  than  most  people 
understand.  The  thing  that  one  has  chosen  for  one's 
life  work  in  the  world : — what  labour  could  be  too  great 
for  it,  or  what  too  minute? 

When  I  knew  that  I  was  to  make  my  debut  as  Gilda, 
in  Verdi's  opera  of  Rigoletto,  I  settled  down  to  put 
myself  into  that  part.  I  studied  for  nine  months, 
until  I  was  not  certain  whether  I  was  really  Gilda — or 
only  myself! 

I  was  taking  lessons  in  acting  with  Scola  then,  in 
addition  to  my  musical  study.  And,  besides  Scola's 
regular  course,  I  closely  observed  the  methods  of 
individuals,  actors,  and  singers.  I  remember  seeing 
Brignoli  in  /  Puritani,  during  that "  incubating  period  " 
before  my  first  appearance  in  opera.  I  was  studying 
gesture  then, — the  free,  simple,  inevitable  gesture  that 
is  so  necessary  to  a  natural  effect  in  dramatic  singing; 
and  during  the  beautiful  melody,  A  te,  o  cara,  which  he 
sang  in  the  first  act,  Brignoli  stood  still  in  one  spot 
and  thrust  first  one  arm  out,  and  then  the  other,  at 
right  angles  from  his  body,  twenty-three  consecutive 
times.  I  counted  them,  and  I  don't  know  how  many 
times  he  had  done  it  before  I  began  to  count ! 

"Heavens!"  I  said,  "that 's  one  thing  not  to  do, 
anyway!" 

Languages  were  a  very  important  part  of  my  train- 
ing. I  had  studied  French  when  I  was  nine  years  old, 
in  the  country,  and  as  soon  as  I  began  taking  singing 
lessons  I  began  Italian  also.  Much  later,  when  I  sang 
in  Les  Noces  de  Jeannette,  people  would  speak  of  my 


3°  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

French  and  ask  where  I  had  studied.  But  it  was  all 
learned  at  home. 

I  never  studied  German.  There  was  less  demand 
for  it  in  music  than  there  is  now.  America  practically 
had  no  "German  opera;"  and  Italian  was  the  accepted 
tongue  of  dramatic  and  tragic  music,  as  French  was 
the  language  of  lighter  and  more  popular  operas. 
Besides,  German  always  confused  me;  and  I  never 
liked  it. 

Many  years  later  than  the  time  of  which  I  am  now 
writing,  I  was  charmed  to  be  confirmed  in  my  anti- 
German  prejudices  when  I  went  to  Paris.  After  the 
Franco-Prussian  War  the  signs  and  warnings  in  that 
city  were  put  up  in  every  language  in  the  world  except 
German!  The  German  way  of  putting  things  was 
too  long;  and,  furthermore,  the  French  people  didn't 
care  if  Germans  did  break  their  legs  or  get  run  over. 

Of  course,  all  this  is  changed — and  in  music  most 
of  all.  For  example,  there  could  be  no  greater  convert 
to  Wagnerism  than  I ! 

My  mother  hated  the  atmosphere  of  the  theatre 
even  though  she  had  wished  me  to  become  a  singer, 
and  always  gloried  in  my  successes.  To  her  rigid  and 
delicate  instinct  there  was  something  dreadful  in  the 
free  and  easy  artistic  attitude,  and  she  always  stood 
between  me  and  any  possible  intimacy  with  my  fellow- 
singers.  I  believe  this  to  have  been  a  mistake.  Many 
traditions  of  the  stage  come  to  one  naturally  and  easily 
through  others;  but  I  had  to  wait  and  learn  them  all 
by  experience.  I  was  always  working  as  an  outsider, 
and,  naturally,  this  attitude  of  ours  antagonised 
singers  with  whom  we  appeared. 

Not  only  that.  My  brain  would  have  developed 
much  more  rapidly  if  I  had  been  allowed — no,  if  I  had 


"  LiKe  a  PicKed  ChicKen  "  31 

been  obliged  to  be  more  self-reliant.  To  profit  by  one's 
own  mistakes; — all  the  world's  history  goes  to  show 
that  is  the  only  way  to  learn.  By  protecting  me,  my 
mother  really  robbed  me  of  much  precious  experience. 
For  how  many  years  after  I  had  made  my  debut  would 
she  wait  for  me  in  the  coulisses,  ready  to  whisk  me  off 
to  my  dressing-room  before  any  horrible  opera  singer 
had  a  chance  to  talk  with  me ! 

Yet  she  grieved  for  my  forfeited  youth — did  my 
dear  mother.  She  always  felt  that  I  was  being  sacri- 
ficed to  my  work,  and  just  at  the  time  when  I  would 
have  most  delighted  in  my  girlhood.  Of  course,  I  was 
obliged  to  live  a  life  of  labour  and  self-denial,  but  it  was 
not  quite  so  difficult  for  me  as  she  felt  it  to  be,  or  as 
other  people  sometimes  thought  it  was.  Not  only  did 
I  adore  my  music,  and  look  forward  to  my  work  as  an 
artist,  but  I  literally  never  had  any  other  life.  I 
knew  nothing  of  what  I  had  given  up ;  and  so  was  happy 
in  what  I  had  undertaken,  as  no  girl  could  have  been 
happy  who  had  lived  a  less  restricted,  hard-working 
and  yet  dream -filled  existence. 

My  mother  was  very  strait-laced  and  puritanical, 
as  I  have  said,  and,  naturally,  by  reflection  and  asso- 
ciation, I  was  the  same.  I  lay  stress  on  this  because 
I  want  one  little  act  of  mine  to  be  appreciated  as  a 
sign  of  my  ineradicable  girlishness  and  love  of  beauty. 
When  I  earned  my  first  money,  I  went  to  Mme.  Perci- 
val's,  the  smart  lingerie  shop  of  New  York,  and  bought 
the  three  most  exquisite  chemises  I  could  find,  imported 
and  trimmed  with  real  lace! 

I  daresay  this  harmless  ebullition  of  youthful  dainti- 
ness would  have  proved  the  last  straw  to  some  of  my 
Psalm-singing  New  England  relatives.  There  was  one 
uncle  of  mine  who  vastly  disapproved  of  my  going  on 


32  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

the  stage  at  all,  saying  that  it  would  have  been  much 
better  if  I  had  been  a  good,  honest  milliner.  He  used 
to  sing : 


x_  /* 

—  1  

"Broad     is     the 

road 

*^_*  -J-    -, 

That     leads  t< 

• 
> 

-&- 
Hell!" 

in  a  minor  key,   with  the  true,   God-fearing,   nasal 
twang  in  it. 

How  I  detested  that  old  man!  And  I  had  to  bury 
him,  too,  at  the  last.  I  wonder  whether  I  should  have 
been  able  to  do  so  if  I  had  gone  into  the  millinery 
business ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  YOUTHFUL  REALIST 

AS  I  have  said,  I  studied  Gilda  for  nine  months. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  I  was  so  imbued  with  the 
part  as  to  be  thoroughly  at  ease.  Present-day  actors 
call  this  condition  "getting  inside  the  skin"  of  a  role. 
I  simply  could  not  make  a  mistake,  and  could  do 
everything  connected  with  the  characterisation  with 
entire  unconsciousness.  Yet  I  want  to  add  that  I  had 
little  idea  of  what  the  opera  really  meant. 

My  debut  was  in  New  York  at  the  old  Academy 
of  Music,  and  Rigoletto  was  the  famous  Ferri.  He 
was  blind  in  one  eye  and  I  had  always  to  be  on  his 
seeing  side, — else  he  could  n't  act.  Stigelli  was  the 
tenor.  Stiegel  was  his  real  name.  He  was  a  German 
and  a  really  fine  artist.  But  I  had  then  had  no  expe- 
rience with  stage  heroes  and  thought  they  were  all 
going  to  be  exactly  as  they  appeared  in  my  romantic 
dreams,  and — poor  man,  he  is  dead  now,  so  I  can  say 
this! — it  was  a  dreadful  blow  to  me  to  be  obliged  to 
sing  a  love  duet  with  a  man  smelling  of  lager  beer  and 
cheese ! 

Charlotte   Cushman — who   was   a   great   friend   of 

Miss  Emma  Stebbins,  the  sister  of  Colonel  Stebbins — 

had  always  been  interested  in  me;  so  when  she  knew 

that  I  was  to  make  my  debut  on  February  26  (1861), 

3  33 


34  j\n.  .American  Prima  Donna 

she  put  on  Meg  Merrilies  for  that  night  because  she 
could  get  through  with  it  early  enough  for  her  to  see 
part  of  my  first  performance.  She  reached  the  Acad- 
emy in  time  for  the  last  act  of  Rigoletto;  and  I  felt  that 
I  had  been  highly  praised  when,  as  I  came  out  and 
began  to  sing,  she  cried: 

"The  girl  doesn't  seem  to  know  that  she  has  any 
arms!" 

My  freedom  of  gesture  and  action  came  from  nothing 
but  the  most  complete  familiarity  with  the  part  and 
with  the  detail  of  everything  I  had  to  do.  In  opera 
one  cannot  be  too  temperamental  in  one's  acting. 
One  cannot  make  pauses  when  one  thinks  it  effective, 
nor  alter  the  stage  business  to  fit  one's  mood,  nor  work 
oneself  up  to  an  emotional  crescendo  one  night  and  not 
do  it  the  next.  Everything  has  to  be  timed  to  a  second 
and  a  fraction  of  a  second.  One  cannot  wait  for  un- 
usual effects.  The  orchestra  does  not  consider  one's 
temperament,  and  this  fact  cannot  be  lost  sight  of  for 
a  moment.  This  is  why  I  believe  in  rehearsing  and 
studying  and  working  over  a  role  so  exhaustively— 
and  exhaustingly.  For  it  is  only  in  that  most  rigidly 
studied  accuracy  of  action  that  any  freedom  can  be 
attained.  When  one  becomes  so  trained  that  one 
cannot  conceivably  retard  a  bar,  and  cannot  undertime 
a  stage  cross  nor  fail  to  come  in  promptly  in  an 
ensemble,  then,  and  only  then,  can  one  reach  some 
emotional  liberty  and  inspiration. 

If  I  had  not  worked  so  hard  at  Gilda  I  should 
never  have  got  through  that  first  performance.  I  was 
not  consciously  nervous,  but  my  throat — it  is  quite 
impossible  to  tell  in  words  how  my  throat  felt.  I  have 
heard  singers  describe  the  first-night  sensation  variously, 
— a  tongue  that  felt  stiff,  a  palate  like  a  hot  griddle, 


A  YoxitKfvil  Realist  35 

and  so  on.  My  throat  and  my  tongue  were  dry  and 
thick  and  woolly,  like  an  Oriental  rug  with  a  "pile" 
so  deep  and  heavy  that,  if  water  is  spilled  on  it,  the 
water  does  not  soak  in,  but  lies  about  the  surface  in 
globules, — just  a  dry  and  unabsorbing  carpet. 

My  mother  was  with  me  behind  the  scenes;  and  my 
grandmother  was  in  front  to  see  me  in  all  my  stage 
grandeur.  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  care  particularly 
where  either  of  them  were.  Certainly  I  had  no  thought 
for  anyone  who  might  be  seated  out  in  the  Great 
Beyond  on  the  far  side  of  the  footlights.  I  sang  the 
second  act  in  a  dream,  unconscious  of  any  audience: — 
hardly  conscious  of  the  music  or  of  myself — going 
through  it  all  mechanically.  But  the  sub-conscious  mind 
had  been  at  work  all  the  time.  As  I  was  changing  my 
costume  after  the  second  act,  my  mother  said  to  me: 

"  I  cannot  find  your  grandmother  anywhere.  I  have 
been  looking  and  peeping  through  the  hole  in  the 
curtain  and  from  the  wings,  but  I  cannot  seem  to 
discover  where  she  is  sitting. " 

Hardly  thinking  of  the  words,  I  answered  at  once: 

"She  is  over  there  to  the  left,  about  three  rows  back, 
near  a  pillar. " 

The  criticisms  of  the  press  next  day  said  that  my 
most  marked  specialty  was  my  ability  to  strike  a  tone 
with  energy.  I  liked  better,  however,  one  kindly 
reviewer  who  observed  that  my  voice  was  "cordial  to 
the  heart!"  The  newspapers  found  my  stage  appear- 
ance peculiar.  There  was  about  it  "a  marked  develop- 
ment of  the  intellectual  at  the  expense  of  the  physical 
to  which  her  New  England  birth  may  afford  a  key." 
The  man  who  wrote  this  was  quite  correct.  He  had 
discovered  the  Puritan  maid  behind  the  stage  trappings 
of  Gilda. 


36  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

If  omens  count  for  anything  I  ought  to  have  had 
a  disastrous  first  season,  for  everything  went  wrong 
during  that  opening  week.  I  lost  a  bracelet  of  which 
I  was  particularly  fond ;  I  fell  over  a  stick  in  making  an 
entrance  and  nearly  went  on  my  head;  and  at  the  end 
of  the  third  act  of  the  second  performance  of  Rigoletto 
the  curtain  failed  to  come  down,  and  I  was  obliged  to 
stay  in  a  crouching  attitude  until  it  could  be  put  into 
working  order  again.  But  these  trying  experiences 
were  not  auguries  of  failure  or  of  disaster.  In  fact  my 
public  grew  steadily  kinder  to  me,  although  it  hung 
back  a  little  until  after  Marguerite.  Audiences  were 
not  very  cordial  to  new  singers.  They  distrusted  their 
own  judgment;  and  I  don't  altogether  wonder  that 
they  did. 

The  week  after  my  debut  we  went  to  Boston  to 
sing.  Boston  would  not  have  Rigoletto.  It  was  con- 
sidered objectionable,  particularly  the  ending.  For 
some  inexplicable  reason  Linda  di  Chamounix  was 
expected  to  be  more  acceptable  to  the  Bostonian 
public,  and  so  I  was  to  sing  the  part  of  Linda 
instead  of  that  of  Gilda.  I  had  been  working  on 
Linda  during  a  part  of  the  year  in  which  I  studied 
Gilda,  and  was  quite  equal  to  it.  The  others  of  the 
company  went  to  Boston  ahead  of  me,  and  I  played 
Linda  at  a  matinee  in  New  York  before  following 
them.  This  was  the  first  time  I  sang  in  opera  with 
Brignoli.  I  went  on  in  the  part  with  only  one  rehearsal. 
Opera-goers  do  not  hear  Linda  any  more,  but  it  is  a 
graceful  little  opera  with  some  pretty  music  and  a 
really  charmingly  poetic  story.  It  was  taken  from  the 
French  play,  La  Grace  de  Dieu,  and  Rigoletto  was  taken 
from  Victor  Hugo's  Le  Roi  S1  Amuse.  The  story  of 
Linda  is  that  of  a  Swiss  peasant  girl  of  Chamounix  who 


A  Youthful  Realist  37 

falls  in  love  with  a  French  noble  whom  she  has  met  as 
a  strolling  painter  in  her  village.  He  returns  to  Paris 
and  she  follows  him  there,  walking  all  the  way  and 
accompanied  by  a  faithful  rustic,  Pierotto,  who  loves  her 
humbly.  He  plays  a  hurdy-gurdy  and  Linda  sings,  and 
so  the  poor  young  vagrants  pay  their  way.  In  Paris 
the  nobleman  finds  her  and  lavishes  all  manner  of  jewels 
and  luxuries  upon  little  Linda,  but  at  last  abandons 
her  to  make  a  rich  marriage.  On  the  same  day  that 
she  hears  the  news  of  her  lover's  wedding  her  father 
comes  to  her  house  in  Paris  and  denounces  her.  She 
goes  mad,  of  course.  Most  operatic  heroines  did  go 
mad  in  those  days.  And,  in  the  last  act,  the  peasant 
lover  with  the  hurdy-gurdy  takes  her  back  to  Cha- 
mounix  among  the  hills.  On  the  lengthy  journey  he 
can  lure  her  along  only  by  playing  a  melody  that  she 
knows  and  loves.  It  is  a  dear  little  story;  but  I  never 
could  comprehend  how  Boston  was  induced  to  accept 
the  second  act  since  they  drew  the  line  at  Rigoletto! 

I  liked  Linda  and  wanted  to  give  a  truthful  and 
appealing  impersonation  of  her.  But  the  handicaps 
of  those  days  of  crude  and  primitive  theatre  conditions 
were  really  almost  insurmountable.  Now,  with  every 
assistance  of  wonderful  staging,  exquisite  costuming, 
and  magical  lighting,  the  artist  may  rest  upon  his  or 
her  surroundings  and  accessories  and  know  that  every- 
thing possible  to  art  has  been  brought  together  to 
enhance  the  convincing  effect.  In  the  old  days  at  the 
Academy,  however,  we  had  no  system  of  lighting 
except  glaring  footlights  and  perhaps  a  single,  un- 
imaginative calcium.  We  had  no  scenery  worthy  the 
name;  and  as  for  costumes,  there  were  just  three  sets 
called  by  the  theatre  costumier  "Paysannes"  (peasant 
dress);  "Norma"  (they  did  not  know  enough  even  to 


38  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

call  it  "classic ") ;  and  " Rich ! "  The  last  were  more  or 
less  of  the  Louis  XIV  period  and  could  be  slightly 
modified  for  various  operas.  These  three  sets  were 
combined  and  altered  as  required.  Yet,  of  course, 
the  audiences  were  correspondingly  unexacting.  They 
were  so  accustomed  to  nothing  but  primitive  effects 
that  the  simplest  touch  of  true  realism  surprised  and 
delighted  them.  Once  during  a  performance  of  // 
Barbiere  the  man  who  was  playing  the  part  of  Don 
Basilio  sent  his  hat  out  of  doors  to  be  snowed  on.  It 
was  one  of  those  Spanish  shovel  hats,  long  and  square- 
edged,  like  a  plank.  When  he  wore  it  in  the  next  act, 
all  white  with  snowflakes  from  the  blizzard  outside, 
the  audience  was  so  simple  and  childlike  that  it  roared 
with  pleasure,  "  Why,  it  's  real  snow!" 

It  was  also  the  time  when  hoop  skirts  were  univer- 
sally fashionable,  so  we  all  wore  hoops,  no  matter  what 
the  period  we  were  supposed  to  be  representing. 
Scola  first  showed  me  how  to  fall  gracefully  in  a  hoop 
skirt,  not  in  the  least  an  easy  feat  to  accomplish;  and 
I  shall  always  remember  seeing  Mme.  de  la  Grange 
go  to  bed  in  one,  in  her  sleep-walking  scene  in  Sonnam- 
bula.  Indeed,  there  was  no  illusion  nor  enchantment 
to  help  one  in  those  elementary  days.  One  had  to 
conquer  one's  public  alone  and  unaided. 

I  confided  myself  at  first  to  the  hands  of  the  cos- 
tumier with  characteristic  truthfulness.  I  had  con- 
sidered the  musical  and  dramatic  aspects  of  the  part; 
it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  the  clothes  would  become 
my  responsibility  as  well.  That  theatre  costumier  at 
the  Academy,  I  found,  could  not  even  cut  a  skirt. 
Linda's  was  a  strange  affair,  very  long  on  the  sides, 
and  startlingly  short  in  front.  But  this  was  the  least 
of  my  troubles  on  the  afternoon  of  that  first  matinee 


A  Ycmthfvil  Realist  39 

in  New  York.  When  it  came  to  the  last  act — there 
having  been  no  rehearsals,  and  my  experience  being  next 
to  nothing — I  asked  innocently  for  my  costume,  and 
was  told  that  I  would  have  to  wear  the  same  dress  I 
had  worn  in  the  first  act. 

"But,  I  can't ! "  I  gasped.  "  That  fresh  new  gown,  after 
months  are  supposed  to  have  gone  by ! — when  Linda  has 
walked  and  slept  in  it  during  the  whole  journey ! " 

"No  one  will  think  of  that,"  I  was  assured. 

But  /  thought  of  it  and  simply  could  not  put  on 
that  clean  dress  for  poor  Linda's  travel-worn  last  act. 
I  sent  for  an  old  shawl  from  the  chorus  and  ripped  my 
costume  into  rags.  By  this  time  the  orchestra  was 
almost  at  the  opening  bars  of  the  third  act  and  there 
was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Suddenly  I  looked  at  my 
shoes  and  nearly  collapsed  with  despair.  One  always 
provided  one's  own  foot-gear  and  the  shoes  I  had  on 
were  absolutely  the  only  pair  of  the  sort  required  that 
I  possessed ;  neat  little  slippers,  painfully  new  and  clean. 
We  had  not  gone  to  any  extra  expense,  in  case  I  did 
not  happen  to  make  a  success  that  would  justify  it, 
and  that  was  the  reason  I  had  only  the  one  pair. 
Well — there  was  a  moment's  struggle  before  I  attacked 
my  pretty  shoes — but  my  passion  for  realism  triumphed. 
I  sent  a  man  out  into  Fourteenth  Street  at  the  stage 
door  of  the  Academy  and  had  him  rub  those  immacu- 
late slippers  in  the  gutter  until  they  were  thoroughly 
dirty,  so  that  when  I  wore  them  onto  the  stage  three 
minutes  later  they  looked  as  if  I  had  really  walked 
to  Paris  and  back  in  them. 

The  next  day  the  newspapers  said  that  the  part  of 
Linda  had  never  before  been  sung  with  so  much  pathos. 

"Aha ! "  said  I,  " that  's  my  old  clothes !  That  's  my 
dirt!" 


40  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

I  had  learned  that  the  more  you  look  your  part  the 
less  you  have  to  act.  The  observance  of  this  truth 
was  always  Henry  Irving's  great  strength.  The  more 
completely  you  get  inside  a  character  the  less,  also, 
are  you  obliged  to  depend  on  brilliant  vocalism.  Mary 
Garden  is  a  case  in  point.  She  is  not  a  great  singer, 
although  she  sings  better  than  she  is  credited  with 
doing  or  her  voice  could  not  endure  as  much  as  it  does, 
but  above  all  she  is  intelligent  and  an  artistic  realist, 
taking  care  never  to  lose  the  spirit  of  her  role.  Renaud 
is  one  of  the  few  men  I  have  ever  seen  in  opera  who 
was  willing  to  wear  dirty  clothes  if  they  chanced  to  be 
in  character.  I  shall  never  forget  Jean  de  Reszke  in 
UAfricaine.  In  the  Madagascar  scene,  just  after  the 
rescue  from  the  foundered  vessel,  he  appeared  in  the 
most  beautiful  fresh  tights  imaginable  and  a  pair  of 
superb  light  leather  boots.  Indeed,  the  most  distin- 
guished performance  becomes  weak  and  valueless  if 
the  note  of  truth  is  lacking. 

Theodore  Thomas  was  the  first  violin  in  the  Acad- 
emy at  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  and  not  a  very 
good  one  either.  The  director  was  Maretzek — "Mare- 
tzek  the  Magnificent"  as  he  was  always  called,  for  he 
was  very  handsome  and  had  a  vivid  and  compelling 
personality — on  whom  be  benisons,  for  it  was  he  who, 
later,  suggested  the  giving  of  Faust,  and  me  for  the 
leading  role. 

I  was  not  popular  with  my  fellow-artists  and  did 
not  have  a  very  pleasant  time  preparing  and  rehearsing 
for  my  first  parts.  The  chorus  was  made  up  of  Italians 
who  never  studied  their  music,  merely  learned  it  at 
rehearsal,  and  the  rehearsals  themselves  were  often 
farcical.  The  Italians  of  the  chorus  were  always  bitter 
against  me  for,  up  to  that  time,  Italians  had  had  the 


A  YoutHfxil  Realist  41 

monopoly  of  music.  It  was  not  generally  conceded 
that  Americans  could  appreciate,  much  less  interpret 
opera;  and  I,  as  the  first  American  prima  donna,  was 
in  the  position  of  a  foreigner  in  my  own  country.  The 
chorus,  indeed,  could  sometimes  hardly  contain  them- 
selves. ' '  Who  is  she, ' '  they  would  demand  indignantly, 
"to  come  and  take  the  bread  out  of  our  mouths?" 

One  other  person  in  the  company  who  never  gave  me 
a  kind  word  (although  she  was  not  an  Italian)  was 
Adelaide  Phillips,  the  contralto.  She  was  a  fine  artist 
and  had  been  singing  for  many  years,  so,  perhaps,  it 
galled  her  to  have  to  "support"  a  younger  country- 
woman. When  it  came  to  dividing  the  honours  she 
was  not  at  all  pleased.  As  Maddalena  in  Rigoletto 
she  was  very  plain;  but  when  she  did  Pierotto,  the 
boyish,  rustic  lover  in  Linda,  she  looked  well.  She  had 
the  most  perfectly  formed  pair  of  legs — ankles,  feet 
and  all — that  I  ever  saw  on  a  woman. 

In  singing  with  Brignoli  there  developed  a  difficulty 
to  which  Ferri's  blindness  was  nothing.  Brignoli  seri- 
ously objected  to  being  touched  during  his  scene! 
Imagine  playing  love  scenes  with  a  tenor  who  did  not 
want  to  be  touched,  no  matter  what  might  be  the 
emotional  exigencies  of  the  moment  or  situation.  The 
bass  part  in  Linda  is  that  of  the  Baron,  and  when  I 
first  sang  the  opera  it  was  taken  by  Susini,  who  had 
been  with  us  on  our  preparatory  tournee.  His  wife 
was  Isabella  Hinckley,  a  good  and  sweet  woman,  also 
a  singer  with  an  excellent  soprano  voice.  I  found  that 
the  big  basso  (he  was  a  very  large  man  with  a  buoyant 
sense  of  humour)  was  a  fine  actor  and  had  a  genuine 
dramatic  gift  in  singing.  His  sense  of  humour  was 
always  bubbling  up,  in  and  out  of  performances.  I 
once  lost  a  diamond  from  one  of  my  rings  during  the 


42  ,A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

first  act.  My  dressing-room  and  the  stage  were 
searched,  but  with  no  result.  We  went  on  for  the  last 
act  and,  in  the  scene  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  uncon- 
scious, Susini  caught  sight  of  the  stone  glittering  on  the 
floor  and  picked  it  up.  As  he  needed  his  hands  for 
gesticulations,  he  popped  the  diamond  into  his  mouth 
and  when  I  "came  to"  he  stuck  out  his  tongue  at  me 
with  the  stone  on  the  end  of  it ! 

While  I  was  working  on  the  part  of  Linda  myself, 
I  heard  Mme.  Medori  sing  it.  She  gave  a  fine 
emotional  interpretation,  getting  great  tragic  effects 
in  the  Paris  act,  but  she  did  not  catch  the  naive  and 
ingenuous  quality  of  poor,  young  Linda.  It  could 
hardly  have  been  otherwise,  for  she  was  at  the  time  a 
mature  woman.  There  are  some  parts, — Marguerite 
is  one  of  them,  also, — that  can  be  made  too  com- 
plicated, too  subtle,  too  dramatic.  I  was  criticised 
for  my  immaturity  and  lack  of  emotional  power  until 
I  was  tired  of  hearing  such  criticism;  and  once  had  a 
quaint  little  argument  about  my  abilities  and  powers 
with  "Nym  Crinkle,"  the  musical  critic  of  The  World, 
A.  C.  Wheeler.  (Later  he  made  a  success  in  literature 
under  the  name  of  "J.  P.  Mowbray. ") 

"What  do  you  expect,"  I  demanded,  in  my  old- 
fashioned  yet  childish  way,  being  at  the  time  eighteen, 
"what  do  you  expect  of  a  person  of  my  age?" 


Brignoli,  1865 

From  a  photograph  by  C.  Silvy 


CHAPTER  V 

LITERARY  BOSTON 

MY  friends  in  New  York  had  given  me  letters  to 
people  in  Boston,  so  I  went  there  with  every 
opportunity  for  an  enjoyable  visit.  But,  naturally, 
I  was  much  more  absorbed  in  my  own  debut  and  in 
what  the  public  would  think  of  me  than  I  was  in  meet- 
ing new  acquaintances  and  receiving  invitations.  Now 
I  wish  that  I  had  then  more  clearly  realised  possibilities, 
for  Boston  was  at  the  height  of  its  literary  reputation. 
All  my  impressions  of  that  Boston  season,  however, 
sink  into  insignificance  compared  to  that  of  my  first 
public  appearance.  I  sang  Linda ;  and  there  were  only 
three  hundred  people  in  the  house! 

If  anything  in  the  world  could  have  discouraged  me 
that  would  have,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  do  not 
believe  anything  could.  At  any  rate,  I  worked  all  the 
harder  just  because  the  conditions  were  so  adverse; 
and  I  won  my  public  (such  as  it  was)  that  night.  I 
may  add  that  I  kept  it  for  the  remainder  of  my  stay 
in  Boston. 

At  that  period  of  my  life  I  was  very  fragile  and 
one  big  performance  would  wear  me  out.  Literally,  I 
used  myself  up  in  singing,  for  I  put  into  it  every  ounce 
of  my  strength.  I  could  not  save  myself  when  I  was 
actually  working,  but  my  way  of  economising  my 
vitality  was  to  sing  only  twice  a  week. 

43 


44  An  American  Prima  Donna 

It  was  after  that  first  performance  of  Linda,  some 
time  about  midnight,  and  my  mother  and  I  had  just 
returned  to  our  apartment  in  the  Tremont  House  and 
had  hardly  taken  off  our  wraps,  when  a  knock  came 
at  the  door.  Our  sitting-room  was  near  a  side  entrance 
for  the  sake  of  quietness  and  privacy,  but  we  paid  a 
penalty  in  the  ease  with  which  we  could  be  reached  by 
anyone  who  knew  the  way.  My  mother  opened  the 
door;  and  there  stood  two  ladies  who  overwhelmed  us 
with  gracious  speeches.  "They  had  heard  my  Linda! 
They  had  come  because  they  simply  could  not  help  it; 
because  I  had  moved  them  so  deeply !  Now,  would  we 
both  come  the  following  evening  to  a  little  musicale; 
and  they  would  ask  that  delightful  Signor  Brignoli 
too!  It  would  be  such  a  pleasure!  etc." 

Although  I  was  not  singing  the  following  night,  I 
objected  to  going  to  the  musicale  because  certain 
experiences  in  New  York  had  already  bred  caution. 
I  said,  however,  with  perfect  frankness,  that  I  would 
go  on  one  condition. 

"On  any  condition,  dear  Miss  Kellogg!" 

"You  would  n't  expect  me  to  sing?" 

"Oh  no;  no,  no!" 

Accordingly,  the  next  night  my  mother  and  I  pre- 
sented ourselves  at  the  house  of  the  older  of  the  two 
ladies.  The  first  words  our  hostess  uttered  when  I 
entered  the  room  were : 

"Why!  where  's  your  music?" 

"I  thought  it  was  understood  that  I  was  not  to 
sing, "  said  I. 

But,  in  spite  of  their  previous  earnest  disclaimers 
on  this  point,  they  became  so  insistent  that,  after 
resisting  their  importunities  for  a  few  moments,  I 
finally  consented  to  satisfy  them.  I  asked  Brignoli 


Literary  Boston  45 

to  play  for  me,  and  I  sang  the  Cavatina  from  Linda. 
Then  I  turned  on  my  heel  and  went  back  to  my  hotel; 
and  I  never  again  entered  that  woman's  house.  After 
so  many  years  there  is  no  harm  in  saying  that  the 
hostess  who  was  guilty  of  this  breach  of  tact,  good 
taste,  and  consideration,  was  Mrs.  Paran  Stevens,  and 
the  other  lady  was  her  sister,  Miss  Fanny  Reed,  one 
of  the  talented  amateurs  of  the  day.  They  were 
struggling  hard  for  social  recognition  in  Boston  and 
every  drawing  card  was  of  value,  even  a  new,  young 
singer  who  might  become  famous.  Later,  of  course, 
Mrs.  Stevens  did  "arrive"  in  New  York;  but  she 
travelled  some  difficult  roads  first. 

This  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  that  I  had 
contended  with  a  lack  of  consideration  in  the  American 
hostess,  especially  toward  artists.  Her  sisters  across 
the  Atlantic  have  better  taste  and  breeding,  never 
subjecting  an  artist  who  is  their  guest  to  the  annoyance 
and  indignity  of  having  to  "sing  for  her  supper. "  But 
whenever  I  was  invited  anywhere  by  an  American 
woman,  I  always  knew  that  I  would  be  expected  to 
bring  my  music  and  to  contribute  toward  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  other  guests.  An  Englishwoman  I 
once  met  when  travelling  on  the  Continent  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head,  although  in  quite  another  connection. 

"You  Americans  are  so  queer,"  she  remarked. 
"I  heard  a  woman  from  the  States  ask  a  perfectly 
strange  man  recently  to  stop  in  at  a  shop  and  match 
her  some  silk  while  he  was  out !  I  imagine  it  is  because 
you  don't  mind  putting  yourselves  under  obligations, 
is  n't  it?" 

Literary  Boston  of  that  day  revolved  around  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  James  T.  Fields,  at  whose  house  often  as- 
sembled such  distinguished  men  and  women  as  Emer- 


46  An  American  Prima  Donna 

son,  Longfellow,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Lowell, 
Anthony  Trollope,  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  and  Julia 
Ward  Howe.  Mr.  Fields  was  the  editor  of  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  and  his  sense  of  humour  was  always  a  delight. 

"A  lady  came  in  from  the  suburbs  to  see  me  this 
morning,"  he  once  remarked  to  me.  '"Well,  Mr. 
Fields,'  she  said,  with  great  impressiveness,  'what  have 
you  new  in  literature  to-day?  I  'm  just  thusty  for 
knowledge!" 

Your  true  New  Englander  always  says  "thust"  and 
"fust"  and  "wust,"  and  Mr.  Fields  had  just  the 
intonation — which  reminds  me  somehow — in  a  round- 
about fashion — of  a  strange  woman  who  battered  on 
my  door  once  after  I  had  appeared  in  Faust,  in  Boston, 
to  tell  me  that  "that  man  Mephisto-fleas  was  just 
great!" 

It  was  a  wonderful  privilege  to  meet  Longfellow. 
He  was  never  gay,  never  effusive,  leaving  these  attri- 
butes to  his  talkative  brother-in-law,  Tom  Appleton, 
who  was  a  wit  and  a  humourist.  Indeed,  Longfellow 
was  rather  noted  for  his  cold  exterior,  and  it  took  a 
little  time  and  trouble  to  break  the  ice,  but,  though  so 
unexpressive  outwardly,  his  nature  was  most  winning 
when  one  was  once  in  touch  with  it.  His  first  wife  was 
burned  to  death  and  the  tragedy  affected  him  per- 
manently, although  he  made  a  second  and  a  very- 
successful  marriage  with  Tom  Appleton's  sister.  The 
brothers-in-law  were  often  together  and  formed  the 
oddest  possible  contrast  to  each  other. 

Longfellow  and  I  became  good  friends.  I  saw  him 
many  times  and  often  went  to  his  house  to  sing  to  him. 
He  greatly  enjoyed  my  singing  of  his  own  Beware.  It 
was  always  one  of  my  successful  encore  songs,  although 
it  certainly  is  not  Longfellow  at  his  best.  But  he 


James  Russell  Lowell  in  1861 

From  a  photograph  by  Brady 


Literary  Boston  47 

liked  me  to  sit  at  the  piano  and  wander  from  one  song 
to  another.  The  older  the  melodies,  the  sweeter  he 
found  them.  Longfellow's  verses  have  much  in  com- 
mon with  simple,  old-fashioned  songs.  They  always 
touched  the  common  people,  particularly  the  common 
people  of  England.  They  were  so  simple  and  so  true 
that  those  folk  who  lived  and  laboured  close  to  the 
earth  found  much  that  moved  them  in  the  American 
writer's  unaffected  and  elemental  poetry.  Yet  it  seems 
a  bit  strange  that  his  poems  are  more  loved  and  appre- 
ciated in  England  than  in  America,  much  as  Tennyson's 
are  more  familiar  to  us  than  to  his  own  people.  Some 
years  later,  when  I  was  singing  in  London,  I  heard  that 
Longfellow  was  in  town  and  sent  him  a  box.  He 
and  Tom  Appleton,  who  was  with  him,  came  behind 
the  scenes  between  the  acts  to  see  me  and,  my  mother 
being  with  me,  both  were  invited  into  my  dressing- 
room.  In  the  London  theatres  there  are  women, 
generally  advanced  in  years,  who  assist  the  prima 
donna  or  actress  to  dress.  These  do  not  exist  in 
American  theatres.  I  had  a  maid,  of  course,  but  there 
was  this  woman  of  the  theatre,  also,  a  particularly 
ordinary  creature  who  contributed  nothing  to  the 
gaiety  of  nations  and  who,  indeed,  rarely  showed 
feeling  of  any  sort.  I  happened  to  say  to  her: 

"Perkins,  I  am  going  to  see  Mr.  Longfellow." 

Her  face  became  absolutely  transfigured. 

"Oh,  Miss, "  she  cried  in  a  tone  of  awe  and  curtseying 
to  his  name,  "you  don't  mean  'im  that  wrote  Tell  me 
not  in  mournful  numbers?  Oh,  Miss!  'im!" 

Lowell  I  knew  only  slightly,  yet  his  distinguished 
and  distinctive  personality  made  a  great  impression  on 
me.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  a  blond,  curly-headed 
young  man,  whose  later  prosperity  greatly  interfered 


48  An  -American  Prima  Donna 

with  his  ability,  I  first  met  about  this  same  time.  He 
was  too  successful  too  young,  and  it  stultified  his  gifts, 
as  being  successful  too  young  usually  does  stultify  the 
natural  gifts  of  anybody.  On  one  occasion  I  met 
Anthony  Trollope  at  the  Fields',  the  English  novelist 
whose  works  were  then  more  or  less  in  vogue.  He  had 
just  come  from  England  and  was  filled  with  conceit. 
English  people  of  that  time  were  incredibly  insular 
and  uninformed  about  us,  and  Mr.  Trollope  knew 
nothing  of  America,  and  did  not  seem  to  want  to  know 
anything.  Certainly,  English  people  when  they  are 
not  thoroughbred  can  be  very  common !  Trollope  was 
full  of  himself  and  wrote  only  for  what  he  could  get 
out  of  it.  I  never,  before  or  since,  met  a  literary 
person  who  was  so  frankly  "on  the  make."  The  dis- 
cussion that  afternoon  was  about  the  recompense  of 
authors,  and  Trollope  said  that  he  had  reduced  his 
literary  efforts  to  a  working  basis  and  wrote  so  many 
words  to  a  page  and  so  many  pages  to  a  chapter.  He 
refrained  from  using  the  actual  word  "money" — the 
English  shrink  from  the  word  "money" — but  he 
managed  to  convey  to  his  hearers  the  fact  that  a 
considerable  consideration  was  the  main  incentive 
to  his  literary  labour,  and  put  the  matter  more  spe- 
cifically later,  to  my  mother,  by  telling  her  that  he 
always  chose  the  words  that  would  fill  up  the  pages 
quickest. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  though  he  was  one  of  the 
Fields'  circle,  I  never  met  at  all.  He  was  tragically 
shy,  and  more  than  once  escaped  from  the  house  when 
we  went  in  rather  than  meet  two  strange  women. 

"  Hawthorne  has  just  gone  out  the  other  way, "  Mrs. 
Fields  would  whisper,  smiling.  "He  's  too  frightened 
to  meet  you!" 


Literary  Boston  49 

I  met  his  boy  Julian,  however,  who  was  about 
twelve  years  old.  He  was  a  nice  lad  and  I  kissed  him — • 
to  his  great  annoyance,  for  he  was  shy  too,  although 
not  so  much  so  as  his  father.  Not  so  very  long  ago 
Julian  Hawthorne  reminded  me  of  this  episode. 

"Do  you  remember,"  he  said,  laughing,  "how 
embarrassed  I  was  when  you  kissed  me?  'Never  you 
mind'  you  said  to  me  then,  'the  time  will  come,  my 
boy,  when  you'll  be  glad  to  remember  that  I  kissed 
you!'  And  it  certainly  did  come !" 

All  Boston  that  winter  was  stirred  by  the  approach- 
ing agitations  of  war;  and  those  two  remarkable 
women,  Mrs.  Stowe  and  Mrs.  Howe  were  using  their 
pens  to  excite  the  community  into  a  species  of  splendid 
rage.  I  first  met  them  both  at  the  Fields'  and  always 
admired  Julia  Ward  Howe  as  a  representative  type  of 
the  highest  Boston  culture.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 
had  just  finished  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  Many  people 
believed  that  it  and  the  disturbance  it  made  were 
partly  responsible  for  the  war  itself.  Mr.  Fields  told 
me  that  her  "copy"  was  the  most  remarkable  "stuff" 
that  the  publishers  had  ever  encountered.  It  was 
written  quite  roughly  and  disconnectedly  on  whatever 
scraps  of  paper  she  had  at  hand.  I  suppose  she  wrote 
it  when  the  spirit  moved  her.  At  any  rate,  Mr.  Fields 
said  it  was  the  most  difficult  task  imaginable  to  fit  it 
into  any  form  that  the  printers  could  understand. 
Mrs.  Stowe  was  a  quiet,  elderly  woman,  and  talked 
very  little.  I  had  an  odd  sort  of  feeling  that  she  had 
put  so  much  of  herself  into  her  book  that  she  had 
nothing  left  to  offer  socially. 

I  did  not  realise  until  years  afterwards  what  a 
precious  privilege  it  was  to  meet  in  such  a  charming 
intime  way  the  men  and  women  who  really  "made" 


50  -An  American  Prima  Donna 

American  literature.  The  Fields  literally  kept  open 
house.  They  were  the  most  hospitable  of  people, 
and  I  loved  them  and  spent  some  happy  hours  with 
them.  I  cannot  begin  to  enumerate  or  even  to  remem- 
ber all  the  literary  lights  I  met  in  their  drawing-room. 
Of  that  number  there  were  James  Freeman  Clarke, 
Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  whom  I  knew  later  in  Wash- 
ington, and  Gail  Hamilton  who  was  just  budding  into 
literary  prominence;  and  Sidney  Lanier.  But,  as  I 
look  back  on  that  first  Boston  engagement,  I  see 
plainly  that  the  most  striking  impression  made  upon 
my  youthful  mind  during  the  entire  season  was  the 
opening  night  of  Linda  di  Chamounix  and  the  three 
hundred  auditors! 

It  was  long,  long  after  that  first  season  that  I  had 
some  of  my  pleasantest  times  in  Boston  with  Sidney 
Lanier.  This  may  not  be  the  right  place  to  mention 
them,  but  they  certainly  belong  under  the  heading  of 
this  chapter. 

The  evening  that  stands  out  most  clearly  in  my 
memory  was  one,  in  the  'seventies,  that  I  spent  at  the 
house  of  dear  Charlotte  Cushman  who  was  then  very 
ill  and  who  died  almost  immediately  after.  Sidney 
Lanier  was  there  with  his  flute,  which  he  played  charm- 
ingly. Indeed,  he  was  as  much  musician  as  poet,  as 
anyone  who  knows  his  verse  must  realise.  He  was 
poor  then,  and  Miss  Cushman  was  interested  in  him 
and  anxious  to  help  him  in  every  way  she  could. 
There  were  two  dried-up,  little,  Boston  old  maids  there 
too — queer  creatures — who  were  much  impressed  with 
High  Art  without  knowing  anything  about  it.  One 
composition  that  Lanier  played  somewhat  puzzled  me 
— my  impertinent  absolute  pitch  was,  as  usual,  hard  at 
work — and  at  the  end  I  exclaimed: 


Literary  Boston  51 

"That  piece  does  n't  end  in  the  same  key  in  which  it 
begins!" 

Lanier  looked  surprised  and  said : 

"  No,  it  does  n't.     It  is  one  of  my  own  compositions. " 

He  thought  it  remarkable  that  I  could  catch  the 
change  of  key  in  such  a  long  and  intricately  modulated 
piece  of  music.  The  little  old  maids  of  Boston  were 
somewhat  scandalised  by  my  effrontery;  but  there  was 
even  more  to  come.  After  another  lovely  thing  which 
he  played  for  us,  I  was  so  impressed  by  the  rare  tone 
of  his  instrument  that  I  asked: 

"Is  that  a  Bohm  flute?" 

He,  being  a  musician,  was  delighted  with  the  im- 
plied compliment ;  but  the  old  ladies  saw  in  my  question 
only  a  shocking  slight  upon  his  execution.  Turning 
to  one  another  they  ejaculated  with  one  voice,  and 
that  one  filled  with  scorn  and  pity: 

"She  thinks  it 's  the  flute!1' 

This  difference  between  professionals  and  the  laity 
is  odd.  The  more  enchanted  a  professional  is  with 
another  artist's  performance,  the  more  technical  inter- 
est and  curiosity  he  feels.  The  amateur  only  knows 
how  to  rhapsodise.  This  seems  to  be  so  in  every- 
thing. When  someone  rides  in  an  automobile  for  the 
first  time  he  only  thinks  how  exciting  it  is  and  how 
fast  he  is  going.  The  experienced  motorist  immediately 
wants  to  know  what  sort  of  engine  the  machine  has, 
and  how  many  cylinders. 

I  have  always  loved  a  flute.  It  is  a  difficult  instru- 
ment to  play  with  colour  and  variety.  It  is  not  like 
the  violin,  on  which  one  can  get  thirds,  and  sixths,  and 
sevenths,  by  using  the  arpeggio :  it  is  a  single,  thin  tone 
and  can  easily  become  monotonous  if  not  played  skil- 
fully. Furthermore,  there  are  only  certain  pieces  of 


52  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

music  that  ever  ought  to  be  played  on  it.  Wagner 
uses  the  flute  wonderfully.  He  never  lets  it  bore  his 
audience.  The  Orientals  have  brought  flute  playing 
and  flute  music  to  a  fine  art,  and  it  is  one  of  the  oldest 
of  instruments,  but,  unlike  the  violin  and  other  instru- 
ments, it  is  more  perfectly  manufactured  to-day  than 
it  was  in  the  past.  The  modern  flutes  have  a  far  more 
mellow  and  sympathetic  tone  than  the  old  ones. 

That  whole  evening  at  Miss  Cushman's  was  com- 
plete in  its  fulness  of  experience,  as  I  recall  it,  looking 
back  across  the  years.  How  many  people  know  that 
Miss  Cushman  had  studied  singing  and  had  a  very 
fine  baritone  contralto  voice?  Two  of  her  songs  were 
The  Sands  o  Dee  and  Low  I  Breathe  my  Passion. 
That  night,  the  last  time  I  ever  heard  her  sing,  I 
recalled  how  often  before  I  had  seen  her  seating  herself 
at  the  piano  to  play  her  own  accompaniments,  always 
a  difficult  thing  to  do.  Again  I  can  see  her,  at  this  late 
day,  turning  on  the  stool  to  talk  to  us  between  songs, 
emphasising  her  points  with  that  odd,  inevitable  ges- 
ture of  the  forefinger  that  was  so  characteristic  of  her, 
and  then  wheeling  back  to  the  instrument  to  let  that 
deep  voice  of  hers  roll  through  the  room  in 

"  Will  she  wake  and  say  good  night  ?"     .     .     . 

During  that  first  Boston  season  of  mine,  my  mother 
and  I  used  to  give  breakfasts  at  the  Parker  House. 
We  were  somewhat  noted  characters  there  as  we  were 
the  first  women  to  stop  at  it,  the  Parker  House  being 
originally  a  man's  restaurant  exclusively ;  and  breakfast 
was  a  meal  of  ceremony.  The  chef  of  the  Parker 
House  used  to  surpass  himself  at  our  breakfast  enter- 
tainments for  he  knew  that  such  an  epicure  as  Oliver 


Charlotte  Cushman,  1861 

From  a  photograph  by  Silsbee,  Case  &  Co. 


Literary  Boston  53 

Wendell  Holmes  might  be  there  at  any  time.  This 
chef,  by  the  way,  was  the  first  man  to  put  up  soups 
in  cans  and,  after  he  left  the  Parker  House  kitchens, 
he  made  name  and  money  for  himself  in  establishing 
the  canned  goods  trade. 

Dear  Dr.  Holmes!  What  a  delightful,  warm  spon- 
taneous nature  was  his,  and  what  a  fine  mind!  We 
were  always  good  friends  and  I  am  proud  of  the  fact. 
Shall  I  ever  forget  the  dignity  and  impressiveness  of 
his  bearing  as,  after  the  fourth  course  of  one  of  my 
breakfasts,  he  glanced  up,  saw  the  waiter  approaching, 
arose  solemnly  as  if  he  were  about  to  make  a  speech, 
went  behind  his  chair, — we  all  thought  he  was  about 
to  give  us  one  of  his  brilliant  addresses — shook  out  one 
leg  and  then  the  other,  all  most  seriously  and  without 
a  word,  so  as  to  make  room  for  the  next  course! 

Years  later  Dr.  Holmes  and  I  crossed  from  England 
on  the  same  steamer.  He  had  been  feted  and  made 
much  of  in  England  and  we  discussed  the  relative 
brilliancy  of  American  and  English  women.  I  con- 
tended that  Americans  were  the  brighter  and  more 
sparkling,  while  English  women  had  twice  as  much 
real  education  and  mental  training.  Dr.  Holmes 
agreed,  but  with  reservations.  He  professed  himself 
to  be  still  dazzled  with  British  feminine  wit. 

"I'm  tired  to  death,"  he  declared.  "At  every 
dinner  party  I  went  to  they  had  picked  out  the  cleverest 
women  in  London  to  sit  on  each  side  of  me.  I  'm 
utterly  exhausted  trying  to  keep  up  with  them!" 

This  was  the  voyage  when  the  benefit  for  the  sailors 
was  given — for  the  English  sailors,  that  is.  It  was 
well  arranged  so  that  the  American  seamen  could  get 
nothing  out  of  it.  Dr.  Holmes  was  asked  to  speak 
and  I  was  asked  to  sing;  but  we  declined  to  perform. 


54  An  American  Prima  Donna 

We  did  write  our  names  on  the  programmes,  however, 
and  as  these  sold  for  a  considerable  price,  we  added 
to  the  fund  in  spite  of  our  intentions. 

My  first  season  in  Boston — from  which  I  have 
strayed  so  far  so  many  times — was  destined  to  be  a 
brief  one,  but  also  very  strenuous,  due  to  the  fact  that 
in  the  beginning  I  had  only  two  operas  in  my  repertoire, 
one  of  which  Boston  did  not  approve.  After  Linda, 
I  was  rushed  on  in  Bellini's  /  Puritani  and  had  to 
"get  up  in  it"  in  three  days.  It  went  very  well,  and 
was  followed  with  La  Sonnambula  by  the  same  composer 
and  after  only  one  week's  rehearsal.  I  was  a  busy  girl 
in  those  weeks;  and  I  should  have  been  still  busier  if 
opera  in  America  had  not  received  a  sudden  and  tragic 
blow. 

The  "vacillating"  Buchanan's  reign  was  over.  On 
March  4th  Lincoln  was  inaugurated.  A  hush  of  sus- 
pense was  in  the  air: — a  hush  broken  on  April  I2th  by 
the  shot  fired  by  South  Carolina  upon  Fort  Sumter. 
On  April  I4th  Sumter  capitulated  and  Abraham 
Lincoln  called  for  volunteers.  The  Civil  War  had 
begun. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WAR  TIMES 

AT  first  the  tremendous  crisis  filled  everyone  with  a 
purely  impersonal  excitement  and  concern;  but 
one  fine  morning  we  awoke  to  the  fact  that  our  opera 
season  was  paralysed. 

The  American  people  found  the  actual  dramas  of 
Bull  Run,  Big  Bethel  and  Harpers  Ferry  more  absorb- 
ing than  any  play  or  opera  ever  put  upon  the  boards, 
and  the  airs  of  Yankee  Doodle  and  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind 
Me  more  inspiring  than  the  finest  operatic  arias  in  the 
world.  They  did  not  want  to  go  to  the  theatres  in 
the  evening.  They  wanted  to  read  the  bulletin  boards. 
Every  move  in  the  big  game  of  war  that  was  being 
played  by  the  ruling  powers  of  our  country  was  of 
thrilling  interest,  and  as  fast  as  things  happened  they 
were  "posted." 

Maretzek  "the  Magnificent,"  so  obstinate  that  he 
simply  did  not  know  how  to  give  up  a  project  merely 
because  it  was  impossible,  packed  a  few  of  us  off  to 
Philadelphia  to  produce  the  Ballo  in  Maschera.  We 
hoped  against  hope  that  it  would  be  light  enough  to 
divert  the  public,  at  even  that  tragic  moment.  But 
the  public  refused  to  be  diverted.  Why  I  ever  sang 
in  it  I  cannot  imagine.  I  weighed  barely  one  hundred 
and  four  pounds  and  was  about  as  well  suited  to  the 
part  of  Amelia  as  a  sparrow  would  have  been.  I 

55 


5t>      '         .A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

never  liked  the  role;  it  is  heavy  and  uncongenial  and 
altogether  out  of  my  line.  I  should  never  have  been 
permitted  to  do  it,  and  I  have  always  suspected  that 
there  might  have  been  something  of  a  plot  against  me 
on  the  part  of  the  Italians.  But  all  this  made  no 
difference,  for  we  abandoned  the  idea  of  taking  the 
opera  out  on  a  short  tour.  We  could  plainly  see  that 
opera  was  doomed  for  the  time  being  in  America. 

Then  Maretzek  bethought  himself  of  La  Figlia  del 
Reggimento,  a  military  opera,  very  light  and  infectious, 
that  might  easily  catch  the  wave  of  public  sentiment 
at  the  moment.  We  put  it  on  in  a  rush.  I  played 
the  Daughter  and  we  crowded  into  the  performance 
every  bit  of  martial  feeling  we  could  muster.  I  learned 
to  play  the  drum,  and  we  introduced  all  sorts  of  mili- 
tary business  and  bugle  calls,  and  altogether  contrived 
to  create  a  warlike  atmosphere.  We  were  determined 
to  make  a  success  of  it;  but  we  were  also  genuinely 
moved  by  the  contagious  glow  that  pervaded  the 
country  and  the  times,  and  to  this  combined  mood  of 
patriotism  and  expediency  we  sacrificed  many  artistic 
details.  For  example,  we  were  barbarous  enough  to 
put  in  sundry  American  national  airs  and  we  had  the 
assistance  of  real  Zouaves  to  lend  colour;  and  this 
reminds  me  that  about  the  same  period  Isabella 
Hinckley  even  sang  The  Star  Spangled  Banner  in  the 
middle  of  a  performance  of  II  Barbiere. 

Our  attempt  was  a  great  success.  We  played  Doni- 
zetti's little  opera  to  houses  of  frantic  enthusiasm, 
first  in  Baltimore,  then  in  Washington  on  May  the  third, 
where  naturally  the  war  fever  was  at  its  highest  heat. 
The  audiences  cheered  and  cried  and  let  themselves 
go  in  the  hysterical  manner  of  people  wrought  up  by 
great  national  excitements.  Even  on  the  stage  we 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Figlia 

From  a  photograph  by  Black  &  Case 


"War  Times  57 

caught  the  feeling.  I  sang  the  Figlia  better  than 
I  had  ever  sung  anything  yet,  and  I  found  myself 
wondering,  as  I  sang,  how  many  of  my  cadet  friends 
of  a  few  months  earlier  were  already  at  the  front. 

I  felt  very  proud  of  these  friends  when  I  read  the 
despatches  from  the  front.  They  all  distinguished 
themselves,  some  on  one  side  and  some  on  the  other. 
Alec  McCook  was  Colonel  of  the  1st  Ohio  Volunteers, 
being  an  Ohio  man  by  birth,  and  did  splendid  service 
in  the  first  big  battle  of  the  war,  Bull  Run.  He  was 
made  Major-General  of  Volunteers  later,  I  believe, 
and  always  held  a  prominent  position  in  American 
military  affairs.  From  Fort  Pulaski  came  word  of 
Lieutenant  Horace  Porter  who,  though  only  recently 
graduated,  was  in  command  of  the  battlements  there. 
He  was  speedily  brevetted  Captain  for  "distinguished 
gallantry  under  fire,"  and  after  Antietam  he  was  sent 
to  join  the  Army  of  the  Ohio.  He  was  everywhere  and 
did  everything  imaginable  during  the  war — Chatta- 
nooga, Chickamauga,  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness — 
and  was  General  Grant's  aide-de-camp  in  some  of  the 
big  conflicts.  McCreary  and  young  Huger  I  heard 
less  of  because  they  were  on  the  other  side;  but  they 
were  both  brave  fellows  and  did  finely  according  to 
their  convictions.  It  is  odd  to  recall  that  Huger's 
father,  General  Isaac  Huger,  had  fought  for  the  Union 
in  the  early  wars  and  yet  turned  against  her  in  the  civil 
struggle  between  the  blues  and  the  greys.  The  Hugers 
were  South  Carolinians  though,  and  therefore  rabid 
Confederates. 

With  the  war  and  its  many  memories,  ghosts  will 
always  rise  up  in  my  recollection  of  Custer,  the  "  Golden 
Haired  Laddie, " — as  his  friends  called  him.  He  was  a 
good  friend  of  mine,  and  after  the  war  was  over  he  used 


58  .A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

to  come  frequently  to  see  me  and  tell  me  the  most 
wonderful,  thrilling  stories  about  it,  and  of  his  earliest 
fights  with  the  Indians.  He  was  a  most  vivid  creature ; 
one  felt  a  sense  of  vigour  and  energy  and  eagerness 
about  him;  and  he  was  so  brave  and  zealous  as  to 
make  one  know  that  he  would  always  come  up  to  the 
mark.  I  never  saw  more  magnificent  enthusiasm. 
He  was  not  thirty  at  that  time  and  when  on  horse- 
back, riding  hard,  with  his  long  yellow  hair  blowing 
back  in  the  wind,  he  was  a  marvellously  striking 
figure.  He  was  not  really  a  tall  man,  but  looked  so, 
being  a  soldier.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  remember  those 
stories  of  his — stories  of  pluck  and  of  danger  and  of 
excitement ! 

It  has  always  been  a  matter  of  secret  pride  with  me 
that,  in  my  small  way,  I  did  something  for  the  Union 
too.  I  heard  that  our  patriotic  and  inartistic  Daughter 
of  the  Regiment  caused  several  lads  to  enlist.  I  do  not 
know  if  this  were  true,  but  I  hoped  so  at  the  time,  and 
it  might  well  have  been  so. 

I  had  a  dresser,  Ellen  Conklin,  who  had  some  strange 
and  rather  ghastly  tales  to  tell  of  the  slave  trade  in  the 
days  before  the  war.  She  had  been  in  other  opera 
companies,  small  troupes,  that  sang  their  way  from  the 
far  South,  and  the  primitive  and  casual  manner  of 
their  travel  had  offered  many  opportunities  for  her  to 
visit  any  number  of  slave  markets.  She  frequently 
had  been  harrowed  to  the  breaking  point  by  the  sight 
of  mothers  separated  from  their  children,  and  men  and 
women  who  loved  each  other  being  parted  for  life. 
The  worst  horror  of  it  all  had  been  to  her  the  examining 
of  the  female  slaves  as  to  their  physical  equipment, 
in  which  the  buyers  were  more  often  brutal  than  not. 
Ellen  was  Irish  and  emotional;  and  it  tore  her  heart 


General  Horace  Porter 

From  a  photograph  by  Pach  Bros. 


"War  Times  59 

out  to  see  such  things;  but  she  kept  on  going  to  the 
slave  sales  just  the  same. 

"They  nearly  killed  me,  Miss,"  she  declared  to  me 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "but  I  could  never  resist  one!" 

Though  I  quite  understood  Ellen's  emotions,  I 
found  it  a  little  difficult  to  understand  why  she  invited 
them  so  persistently.  But  I  have  learned  that  this  is 
a  very  common  human  weakness — luckily  for  managers 
who  put  on  harrowing  plays.  Many  people  go  to  the 
theatre  to  cry.  When  I  sang  Mignon  the  audience 
always  cried  and  wiped  its  eyes;  and  I  felt  convinced 
that  many  had  come  for  exactly  that  purpose.  Two 
women  I  know  once  went  to  see  Helena  Modjeska  in 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur  and,  when  the  curtain  fell,  one  of 
them  turned  to  the  other  with  streaming  eyes  and 
gasped  between  her  choking  sobs: 

"  L  —  1  —  let  's  come  —  (sob)  —  again  —  (sob) — t — 
t — to-morrow  night!  (sob,  sob)." 

Personally,  I  think  there  are  occasions  enough  for 
tears  in  this  life,  bitter  or  consoling,  without  having 
somebody  on  the  stage  draw  them  out  over  fictitious 
joys  and  sorrows. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  war  the  feeling  against  the 
negroes  was  really  more  bitter  in  the  North  than  in  the 
South.  The  riots  in  New  York  were  a  scandal  and  a 
disgrace,  although  very  few  people  have  any  idea  how 
bad  they  actually  were.  The  Irish  Catholics  were 
particularly  rabid  and  asserted  openly,  right  and  left, 
that  the  freeing  of  the  slaves  would  mean  an  influx  of 
cheap  labour  that  would  become  a  drug  on  the  market. 
It  was  an  Irish  mob  that  burned  a  coloured  orphan 
asylum,  after  which  taste  of  blood  the  most  innocent 
black  was  not  safe.  Perfectly  harmless  coloured  people 
were  hanged  to  lamp-posts  with  impunity.  No  one 


60  An  American  Prima  Donna 

ever  seemed  to  be  punished  for  such  outrages.  The 
time  was  one  of  open  lawlessness  in  New  York  City. 
The  Irish  seem  sometimes  to  be  peculiarly  possessed 
by  this  unreasoning  and  hysterical  mob  spirit  which, 
as  Ruskin  once  pointed  out,  they  always  manage  to 
justify  to  themselves  by  some  high  abstract  principle 
or  sentiment.  A  story  that  has  always  seemed  to  me 
illustrative  of  this  is  that  of  the  Hibernian  contingent 
that  hanged  an  unfortunate  Jew  because  his  people  had 
killed  Jesus  Christ  and,  when  reminded  that  it  had  all 
happened  some  time  before,  replied  that  "that  might 
be,  but  they  had  only  just  heard  of  it!"  It  is  a  singu- 
larly significant  story,  with  much  more  truth  than  jest 
in  it.  Years  later,  I  recollect  that  those  Irish  riots  in 
New  York  over  the  negro  question  served  as  the  basis 
for  some  exceedingly  heated  arguments  between  an 
English  friend  of  mine  at  Aix-les-Bains  and  a  Catholic 
priest  living  there.  The  priest  sought  to  justify  them, 
but  his  reasonings  have  escaped  me. 

At  the  time  of  these  riots  our  New  York  home  was 
on  Twenty-second  Street  where  Stern's  shop  now 
stands.  We  rented  it  from  the  Bryces,  Southerners, 
who  had  a  coloured  coachman,  a  fact  that  made  our 
residence  a  target  for  the  animosity  of  our  more  ignor- 
ant neighbours  who  lived  in  the  rear.  The  house  was 
built  with  a  foreign  porte-cochere;  and,  time  and  again, 
small  mobs  would  throng  under  that  porte-cochere, 
battering  on  the  door  and  trying  to  break  in  to  get  the 
coachman.  The  hanging  of  a  negro  near  St.  John's 
Chapel  was  an  occasion  for  rejoicing  and  festivity,  and 
the  lower  class  Irish  considered  it  a  time  for  their  best 
clothes.  One  hears  of  bear-baiting  and  bull-fights. 
But  think  of  the  barbarity  of  all  this! 

Once,  when  we  went  away  for  a  day  or  two,  we  left 


Times  61 

Irish  servants  in  the  house  and,  on  returning,  I  found 
that  the  maids  had  been  wearing  my  smartest  gowns  to 
view  the  riots  and  lynchings.  A  common  lace  collar 
was  pinned  to  one  of  my  French  dresses  and  I  had  little 
difficulty  in  getting  the  waitress  to  admit  that  she  had 
worn  it.  She  explained  naively  that  the  riots  were 
gala  occasions,  "a  great  time  for  the  Irish."  She 
added  that  she  had  met  my  father  on  the  stairs  and  had 
been  afraid  that  he  would  recognise  the  dress;  but, 
although  she  was  penitent  enough  about  "borrowing" 
the  finery,  she  did  not  in  the  least  see  anything  odd  in 
her  desire  to  dress  up  for  the  tormenting  of  an  unfortu- 
nate fellow-creature. 

Everybody  went  about  singing  Mrs.  Howe's  Battle 
Hymn  of  the  Republic  and  it  was  then  that  I  first 
learned  that  the  air — the  simple  but  rousing  little 
melody  of  John  Brown's  Body — was  in  reality  a  melody 
by  Felix  Mendelssohn.  Martial  songs  of  all  kinds 
were  the  order  of  the  day  and  all  more  classic  music 
was  relegated  to  the  background  for  the  time  being. 
It  was  not  until  the  following  winter  that  public  senti- 
ment subsided  sufficiently  for  us  to  really  consider 
another  musical  season. 


CHAPTER  VII 

STEPS  OF  THE  LADDER 

IN  the  three  years  between  my  debut  and  my  appear- 
ance in  Faust  I  sang,  in  all,  a  dozen  operas: — 
Rigoletto,  Linda,  I  Puritani,  Sonnambula,  Ballo  in 
Maschera,  Figlia  del  Reggimento,  Les  Noces  de  Jeannette, 
Lucia,  Don  Giovanni,  Poliuto,  Marta,  and  Traviata. 
Besides  these,  I  sang  a  good  deal  in  concert,  but  I 
never  cared  for  either  concert  or  oratorio  work  as 
much  as  for  opera.  My  real  growth  and  development 
came  from  big  parts  in  which  both  musical  and  dra- 
matic accomplishment  were  necessary. 

Like  all  artists,  I  look  back  upon  many  fluctuations 
in  my  artistic  achievements.  Sometimes  I  was  good, 
and  often  not  so  good;  and,  curiously  enough,  I  was 
usually  best,  according  to  my  friends  and  critics, 
when  most  dissatisfied  with  myself.  But  of  one  thing 
I  am  fairly  confident: — I  never  really  went  backward, 
never  seriously  retrograded  artistically.  Each  role  was 
a  step  further  and  higher.  To  each  I  brought  a  clearer 
vision,  a  surer  touch,  a  more  flexible  method,  a  finer 
(how  shall  I  say  it  in  English?)  attaque  is  nearest  what 
I  mean.  This  I  say  without  vanity,  for  the  artist  who 
does  not  grow  and  improve  with  each  succeeding  part 
is  deteriorating.  There  is  no  standing  still  in  any  life 
work ;  or,  if  there  is,  it  is  the  standing  still  of  successful 
effort,  the  hard-won  tenure  of  a  difficult  place  from 

62 


Steps  of  tKe  Ladder  63 

which  most  people  slip  back.  The  Red  Queen  in 
Through  the  Looking  Glass  expressed  it  rightly  when 
she  told  Alice  that  "you  have  to  run  just  as  hard  as 
you  can  to  stay  wrhere  you  are. " 

As  Gilda  I  was  laying  only  the  groundwork.  My 
performance  was,  I  believe,  on  the  right  lines.  It  rang 
true.  But  it  was  far  from  what  it  became  in  later 
years  when  the  English  critics  found  me  "the  most 
beautiful  and  convincing  of  all  Gildas!"  As  Linda 
I  do  not  think  that  I  showed  any  great  intellectual 
improvement  over  Gilda,  but  I  had  acquired  a 
certain  confidence  and  authority.  I  sang  and  acted 
with  more  ease;  and  for  the  first  time  I  had  gained  a 
sense  of  personal  responsibility  toward,  and  for,  an 
audience.  When  I  beheld  only  three  hundred  people 
in  my  first-night  Boston  audience  and  determined  to 
win  them,  and  did  win  them,  I  came  into  possession  of 
new  and  important  factors  in  my  work.  This  con- 
sciousness and  earnest  will-power  to  move  one's  public 
by  the  force  of  one's  art  is  one  of  the  first  steps  toward 
being  a  true  prima  donna. 

I  Puritani  never  taught  me  very  much,  simply  as 
an  opera.  The  part  was  too  heavy  as  my  voice  was 
then,  and  our  production  of  it  was  so  hurried  that  I 
had  not  time  to  spend  on  it  the  study  which  I  liked  to 
give  a  new  role.  But  in  this  very  fact  lay  its  lesson  for 
me.  The  necessity  for  losing  timidity  and  self-con- 
sciousness, the  power  to  fling  oneself  into  a  new  part 
without  time  to  coddle  one's  vanity  or  one's  habits 
of  mind,  the  impersonal  courage  needed  to  attack 
fresh  difficulties: — these  points  are  of  quite  as  much 
importance  to  a  young  opera  singer  as  are  fine  breath 
control  and  a  gift  for  phrasing.  Sonnambula,  too, 
had  to  be  "jumped  into"  in  the  same  fashion  and  was 


64  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

even  more  of  an  undertaking,  though  the  role  suited 
me  better  and  is,  in  fact,  a  rarely  grateful  one.  Yet 
think  of  being  Amina  with  only  one  week's  rehears- 
ing! Sonnambula  was  first  given  by  us  as  a  benefit 
performance  for  Brignoli.  It  was  generally  understood 
to  be  in  the  nature  of  a  farewell.  Indeed,  I  think 
he  said  so  himself.  But,  of  course,  he  never  had  the 
slightest  idea  of  really  leaving  America.  He  stayed 
here  until  he  died.  But  to  his  credit  be  it  said  that 
he  never  had  any  more  "farewell"  appearances.  He 
did  not  form  the  habit. 

I  have  spoken  of  how  hopeless  it  is  for  an  opera 
singer  to  try  to  work  emotionally  or  purely  on  impulse ; 
of  how  futile  the  merely  temperamental  artist  becomes 
on  the  operatic  stage.  Yet  too  much  stress  cannot 
be  laid  on  the  importance  of  feeling  what  one  does  and 
sings.  It  is  in  just  this  seeming  paradox  that  the 
truly  professional  artist's  point  of  view  may  be  found. 
The  amateur  acts  and  sings  temperamentally.  The 
trained  student  gives  a  finished  and  correct  perform- 
ance. It  is  only  a  genius — or  something  very  near  it— 
who  can  do  both.  There  is  something  balanced  and 
restrained  in  a  genuine  prima  donna's  brain  that  keeps 
her  emotions  from  running  away  with  her,  just  as 
there  is  at  the  same  time  something  equally  warm  and 
inspired  in  her  heart  that  animates  the  most  clear-cut 
of  her  intellectual  work  and  makes  it  living  and  lovely. 
Sometimes  it  is  difficult  for  an  experienced  artist  to 
say  just  where  instinct  stops  and  art  begins.  When 
I  sang  Amina  I  was  greatly  complimented  on  my 
walk  and  my  intonation,  both  most  characteristic  of  a 
somnambulist.  I  made  a  point  of  keeping  a  strange, 
rhythmical,  dreamy  step  like  that  of  a  sleep-walker 
and  sang  as  if  I  were  talking  in  my  sleep.  I  breathed 


Steps  of  tKe  Ladder  65 

in  a  hard,  laboured  way,  and  walked  with  the  headlong 
yet  dragging  gait  of  someone  who  neither  sees,  knows, 
nor  cares  where  she  is  going.  Now,  this  effect  came 
not  entirely  from  calculation  nor  yet  from  intuition, 
but  from  a  combination  of  the  two.  I  was  in  the 
mood  of  somnambulism  and  acted  accordingly.  But  I 
deliberately  placed  myself  in  that  mood.  This  only 
partly  expresses  what  I  wish  to  say  on  the  subject; 
but  it  is  the  root  of  dramatic  work  as  I  know  it. 

The  opera  of  Sonnanibula,  incidentally,  taught  me 
one  or  two  things  not  generally  included  in  stage 
essentials.  Among  others,  I  had  to  learn  not  to  be 
afraid,  physically  afraid,  or  at  any  rate  not  to  mind 
being  afraid.  In  the  sleep-walking  scene  Amina, 
carrying  her  candle  and  robed  in  white,  glides  across 
the  narrow  bridge  at  a  perilous  height  while  the  watchers 
below  momentarily  expect  her  to  be  dashed  to  pieces 
on  the  rocks  underneath.  Our  bridge  used  to  be  set 
very  high  indeed  (it  was  especially  lofty  in  the  Philadel- 
phia Opera  House  where  we  gave  the  opera  a  little 
later),  and  I  had  quite  a  climb  to  get  up  to  it  at  all. 
There  was  a  wire  strung  along  the  side  of  the  bridge, 
but  it  was  not  a  bit  of  good  to  lean  on — merely  a  moral 
support.  I  had  to  carry  the  candle  in  one  hand  and 
could  n't  even  hold  the  other  outstretched  to  balance 
myself,  for  sleep-walkers  do  not  fall!  This  was  the 
point  that  I  had  to  keep  in  mind;  I  could  not  walk 
carefully,  but  I  had  to  walk  with  certainty.  In  a 
sense  it  was  suggestive  of  a  hypnotic  condition  and  I 
had  to  get  pretty  nearly  into  one  myself  before  I  could 
do  it.  At  all  events,  I  had  to  compose  myself  very 
summarily  first.  Just  in  the  middle  of  the  crossing 
the  bridge  is  supposed  to  crack.  Of  course  the  edges 
were  only  broken;  but  I  had  to  give  a  sort  of  "jog" 


66  An  American  Prima  Donna 

to  carry  out  the  illusion  and  I  used  to  wonder,  the 
while  I  jogged,  if  I  were  going  over  the  side  that  time! 
In  the  wings  they  used  to  be  quite  anxious  about  me 
and  would  draw  a  general  breath  of  relief  when  I  was 
safely  across.  Every  night  I  would  be  asked  if  I  were 
sure  I  wanted  to  undertake  it  that  night,  and  every 
time  I  would  answer: 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can!" 

But,  of  course,  I  always  did  it.  Somehow,  one 
always  does  do  one's  work  on  the  stage,  even  if  it  is 
trying  to  the  nerves  or  a  bit  dangerous.  I  have  heard 
that  when  Maud  Adams  put  on  her  big  production  of 
Joan  of  Arc,  her  managers  objected  seriously  to  having 
her  lead  the  mounted  battle  charge  herself.  A  "  double  " 
was  costumed  exactly  like  her  and  was  ready  to  mount 
Miss  Adams's  horse  at  the  last  moment.  But  did  she 
ever  give  a  double  a  chance  to  lead  her  battle  charge? 
Not  she:  and  no  more  would  any  true  artist. 

Sonnambula  also  helped  fix  in  my  mentality  the 
traditions  of  Italian  opera;  those  traditions  that  my 
teachers — Muzio  particularly — had  been  striving  so 
hard  to  impress  upon  and  make  real  to  me.  The 
school  of  the  older  operas,  while  the  greatest  school  for 
singers  in  the  world,  is  one  in  which  tradition  is,  and 
must  be,  pre-eminent.  In  the  modern  growths,  spring- 
ing up  among  us  every  year,  the  singer  has  a  chance  to 
create,  to  trace  new  paths,  to  take  venturesome  flights. 
The  new  operas  not  only  permit  this,  they  require  it. 
But  it  is  a  pity  to  hear  a  young,  imaginative  artist  try 
to  interpret  some  old  and  classic  opera  by  the  light  of 
his  or  her  modern  perceptions.  They  do  not  improve 
on  the  material.  They  only  make  a  combination  that 
is  bizarre  and  inartistic.  This  struck  me  forcibly  not 
long  ago  when  I  heard  a  young,  talented  American  sing 


Muzio 

From  a  photograph  by  Gurney  &  Son 


Steps  of  tKe  Ladder  67 

A  non  giunge,  the  lovely  old  aria  from  the  last  act  of 
Sonnambula.  The  girl  had  a  charming  voice  and  she 
sang  with  musical  feeling  and  taste.  But  she  had  not 
one  "tradition"  as  we  understood  the  term,  and,  in 
consequence,  almost  any  worn-out,  old-school  singer 
could  have  rendered  the  aria  more  acceptably  to  trained 
ears.  Traditions  are  as  necessary  to  the  Bellini  operas 
as  costumes  are  to  Shakespeare's  plays.  To  dispense 
with  them  may  be  original,  but  it  is  bad  art.  And 
yet,  while  I  became  duly  impressed  with  the  necessity 
of  the  "traditions,"  during  those  early  performances, 
I  always  tried  to  avoid  following  them  too  servilely  or 
too  artificially.  I  tried  to  interpret  for  myself,  within 
certain  well-defined  limits,  according  to  my  personal 
conception  of  the  characters  I  was  personating.  The 
traditions  of  Italian  opera  combined  with  my  own 
ideals  of  the  lyric  heroines, — this  became  my  object 
and  ambition. 

The  summer  after  my  debut,  I  went  on  a  concert 
tour  under  Grau's  management,  but  my  throat  was 
tired  after  the  strain  and  nervous  effort  of  my  first 
season,  and  I  finally  went  up  to  the  country  for  a  long 
rest.  In  New  Hartford,  Connecticut,  my  mother, 
father,  and  I  renewed  many  old  friendships,  and  it  was 
a  genuine  pleasure  to  sing  again  in  a  small  choir,  to 
attend  sewing  circles,  and  to  live  the  every-day  life 
from  which  I  had  been  so  far  removed  during  my 
studies  and  professional  work.  People  everywhere 
were  charming  to  me.  Though  only  nineteen,  I  was 
an  acknowledged  prima  donna,  and  so  received  all  sorts 
of  kindly  attentions.  This  was  the  summer,  I  believe, 
(although  it  may  have  been  a  later  one)  when  Herbert 
Witherspoon,  then  only  a  boy,  determined  to  become 
a  professional  singer.  He  has  always  insisted  that 


68  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

it  was  my  presence  and  the  glamour  that  surrounded 
the  stage  because  of  me  that  finally  decided  him. 

I  did  not  sing  again  in  New  York  until  the  January 
of  1862.  Before  that  we  had  a  short  season  on  the 
road,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and  other  places.  As 
there  were  then  but  nine  opera  houses  in  America  our 
itinerary  was  necessarily  somewhat  limited.  In  Novem- 
ber of  that  year  I  sang  in  Les  Noces  de  Jeannette,  in 
Philadelphia,  a  charming  part  although  not  a  very 
important  one.  It  is  a  simple  little  operetta  in  one  act 
by  Victor  Macci.  The  libretto  was  in  French  and  I 
sang  it  in  that  language.  Pleasing  speeches  were  made 
about  my  French  and  people  wanted  to  know  where  I 
had  studied  it — I,  who  had  never  studied  it  at  all 
except  at  home !  The  opera  was  not  long  enough  for  a 
full  evening's  entertainment,  so  Miss  Hinckley  was 
put  on  in  the  same  bill  in  Donizetti's  Betly.  The  two 
went  very  well  together. 

The  critics  found  Jeannette  a  great  many  surpris- 
ing things,  "broad,"  "risque,"  "typically  French," 
and  so  on.  In  reality  it  was  innocent  enough;  but  it 
must  be  remembered  that  this  was  a  day  and  genera- 
tion which  found  Faust  frightfully  daring,  and  Traviata, 
so  improper  that  a  year's  hard  effort  was  required 
before  it  could  be  sung  in  Brooklyn.  I  sympathised 
with  one  critic,  however,  who  railed  against  the  trans- 
lated libretto  as  sold  in  the  lobby.  After  stating  that 
it  was  utter  nonsense,  he  added  with  excellent  reason: 

"But  this  was  to  have  been  expected.  That  anyone 
connected  with  an  opera  house  should  know  enough 
about  English  to  make  a  decent  translation  into  it  is, 
of  course,  quite  out  of  the  question. " 

It  was  really  funny  about  Traviata.  In  1861  Presi- 
dent Chittenden,  of  the  Board  of  Directors  of  the 


Steps  of  tHe  Ladder  69 

Brooklyn  Academy  of  Music,  made  a  sensational  speech 
arraigning  the  plot  of  Traviata, I  and  protesting  against 
its  production  in  Brooklyn  on  the  grounds  of  propriety, 
or,  rather,  impropriety.  Meetings  were  held  and  it 
was  finally  resolved  that  the  opera  was  objectionable. 
The  feeling  against  it  grew  into  a  series  of  almost 
religious  ceremonies  of  protest  and,  as  I  have  said, 
it  took  Grau  a  year  of  hard  effort  to  overcome  the 
opposition.  When,  at  last,  in  '62,  the  opera  was  given, 
I  took  part;  and  the  audience  was  all  on  edge  with 
excitement.  There  had  been  so  much  talk  about  it 
that  the  whole  town  turned  out  to  see  why  the  Directors 
had  withstood  it  for  a  year.  Every  clergyman  within 
travelling  distance  was  in  the  house. 

Its  dramatic  sister  Camille  was  also  opposed  violently 
when  Mme.  Modjeska  played  it  in  Brooklyn  in  later 
years.  These  facts  are  amusing  in  the  light  of  present- 
day  productions  and  their  morals,  or  dearth  of  them. 
Salome  is,  I  think,  about  the  only  grand  opera  of  recent 
times  that  has  been  suppressed  by  a  Directors'  Meeting. 
But  in  my  youth  Directors  were  very  tender  of  their 
public's  virtuous  feelings.  When  The  Black  Crook 
and  the  Lydia  Thompson  troupe  first  appeared  in  New 
York,  people  spoke  of  those  comparatively  harmless 
shows  with  bated  breath  and  no  one  dared  admit 
having  actually  seen  them.  The  "Lydia  Thompson 
Blonds"  the  troupe  was  called.  They  did  a  burlesque 
song  and  dance  affair,  and  wore  yellow  wigs.  Mr. 
Brander  Matthew's  married  one  of  the  most  popular 
and  charming  of  them.  I  wonder  what  would  have 
happened  to  an  audience  of  that  time  if  a  modern, 
up-to-date,  Broadway  musical  farce  had  been  presented 
to  their  consideration! 

1  The  book  is  founded  upon  Dumas's  La  Dame  aux  Camelias. 


70  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

At  any  rate,  the  much-advertised  Traviata  was 
finally  given,  being  a  huge  and  sensational  success. 
Probably  I  did  not  really  understand  the  character  of 
Violetta  down  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Mod- 
jeska  once  said  that  a  woman  was  only  capable  of 
playing  Juliet  when  she  was  old  enough  to  be  a 
grandmother;  and  if  that  be  true  of  the  young  Verona 
girl,  how  much  more  must  it  be  true  of  poor  Camille. 
My  interpretation  of  the  Lady  of  the  Camellias  must 
have  been  a  curiously  impersonal  one.  I  know  that 
when  Emma  Abbott  appeared  in  it  later,  the  critics 
said  that  she  was  so  afraid  of  allowing  it  to  be  suggestive 
that  she  made  it  so,  whereas  I  apparently  never  thought 
of  that  side  of  it  and  consequently  never  forced  my 
audiences  to  think  of  it  either. 

There  are  some  things  accessible  to  genius  that  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  character  [wrote  one  reviewer].  Abbott 
expects  to  make  Traviata  acceptable  very  much  as  she 
would  make  a  capon  acceptable.  She  is  always  afraid  of 
the  words.  So  she  substitutes  her  own.  Kellogg  sang 
this  opera  and  nobody  ever  thought  of  the  bad  there  is  in 
it.  Why?  Because  Kellogg  never  thought  of  it.  Abbott 
reminds  me  of  a  girl  of  four  who  weeps  for  pantalettes  on 
account  of  the  wickedness  of  the  world ! 

Violetta's  gowns  greatly  interested  me.  I  liked 
surprising  the  public  with  new  and  startling  effects. 
I  argued  that  Violetta  would  probably  love  curious 
and  exotic  combinations,  so  I  dressed  her  first  act  in  a 
gown  of  rose  pink  and  pale  primrose  yellow.  Odd? 
Yes;  of  course  it  was  odd.  But  the  colour  scheme, 
bizarre  as  it  was,  always  looked  to  my  mind  and  the 
minds  of  other  persons  altogether  enchanting. 


Steps  of  tKe  Ladder  71 

A  propos  of  the  Violetta  gowns,  I  sang  the  part 
during  one  season  with  a  tenor  whose  hands  were 
always  dirty.  I  found  the  back  of  my  pretty  frocks 
becoming  grimier  and  grimier,  and  greasier  and  greasier, 
and,  as  I  provided  my  own  gowns  and  had  to  be  eco- 
nomical, I  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  could 
not  and  would  not  afford  such  wholesale  and  continual 
ruin.  So  I  sent  my  compliments  to  Monsieur  and 
asked  him  please  to  be  extra  careful  and  particular 
about  washing  his  hands  before  the  performance  as 
my  dress  was  very  light  and  delicate,  etc., — quite  a 
polite  message  considering  the  subject.  Politeness, 
however,  was  entirely  wasted  on  him.  Back  came  the 
cheery  and  nonchalant  reply: 

"All  right!     Tell  her  to  send  me  some  soap!" 

I  sent  it:  and  I  supplied  him  with  soap  for  the  rest 
of  the  season.  This  was  cheaper  than  buying  new 
clothes. 

Tenors  are  queer  creatures.  Most  of  them  have 
their  eccentricities  and  the  soprano  is  lucky  if  these  are 
innocuous  peculiarities.  I  used  to  find  it  in  my  heart, 
for  instance,  to  wish  that  they  did  not  have  such  queer 
theories  as  to  what  sort  of  food  wras  good  for  the  voice. 
Many  of  them  affected  garlic.  Stigelli  usually  exhaled 
an  aroma  of  lager  beer;  while  the  good  Mazzoleni 
invariably  ate  from  one  to  two  pounds  of  cheese  the 
day  he  was  to  sing.  He  said  it  strengthened  his  voice. 
Brignoli  had  been  long  enough  in  this  country  to 
become  partly  Americanised,  so  he  never  smelled  of 
anything  in  particular. 

Poliuto  by  Donizetti  was  never  as  brilliant  a  success 
as  other  operas  by  the  same  composer.  It  is  never 
given  now.  The  scene  of  it  is  laid  in  Rome,  in  the  days 
of  the  Christian  martyrs,  and  it  has  some  very  effective 


72  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

moments,  but  for  some  reason  those  classic  days  did 
not  appeal  to  the  public  of  our  presentation.  I  do  not 
believe  Quo  Vadis  would  ever  have  gone  then  as  it  did 
later.  The  music  of  Poliuto  was  easy  and  showed  off 
the  voice,  like  all  of  Donizetti's  music:  and  the  part  of 
Paulina  was  exceptionally  fine,  with  splendid  oppor- 
tunities for  dramatic  work.  The  scene  where  she  is 
thrown  into  the  Colosseum  was  particularly  effective. 
But  the  American  audiences  did  not  seem  to  be  deeply 
interested  in  the  fate  of  Paulina  nor  in  that  of 
Septimus  Severus.  The  year  before  my  debut  in 
Rigoletto  I  had  rehearsed  Paulina  and  had  made 
something  tragically  near  to  a  failure  of  it  as  I  had 
not  then  the  physical  nor  vocal  strength  for  the  part. 
Indeed,  I  should  never  then  have  been  allowed  to  try 
it,  and  I  have  always  had  a  suspicion  that  I  was  put  in 
it  for  the  express  purpose  of  proving  me  a  failure. 
That  was  when  Muzio  decided  to  "try  me  out"  in  the 
concert  tournee  as  a  sort  of  preliminary  education. 
Therefore,  one  of  the  most  comforting  elements  of  the 
final  Poliuto  production  to  me  was  the  realisation  that 
I  was  appearing,  and  appearing  well,  in  a  part  in  which 
I  had  rehearsed  so  very  discouragingly  such  a  short 
time  before.  It  was  a  small  triumph,  perhaps,  but  it 
combined  with  many  other  small  matters  to  establish 
that  sure  yet  humble  confidence  which  is  so  essential 
to  a  singer.  So  far  as  personal  success  went,  Brignoli 
made  the  hit  of  Poliuto. 

Lucia  was  never  one  of  my  favourite  parts,  but  it 
is  a  singularly  grateful  one.  It  has  very  few  bad 
moments,  and  one  can  attack  it  without  the  dread  one 
sometimes  feels  for  a  role  containing  difficult  passages. 
Of  course  Lucia,  with  her  hopeless,  weak-minded 
love  for  Edgardo,  and  her  spectacular  mad  scene, 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Lucia 

From  a  photograph  by  Elliott  &  Fry 


Steps  of  tKe  Ladder  73 

reminded  me  of  my  beloved  Linda,  and  there  were 
many  points  of  similarity  in  the  two  operas.  I  found, 
therefore,  that  Lucia  involved  much  less  original 
and  interpretive  work  than  most  of  my  new  parts; 
and  it  was  never  fatiguing.  Being  beautifully  high, 
I  liked  singing  it.  My  voice,  though  flexible  and  of 
wide  range,  always  slipped  most  easily  into  the  far 
upper  registers.  I  can  recall  the  positive  ache  it  was 
to  sing  certain  parts  of  Carmen  that  took  me  down  far 
too  low  for  comfort.  Sometimes  too,  I  must  admit,  I 
used  to  "cheat"  it.  We  nearly  always  opened  in 
Lucia  when  we  began  an  opera  season.  Its  success 
was  never  sensational,  but  invariably  safe  and  sure. 
Sometimes  managers  would  be  dubious  and  suggest 
some  production  more  startling  as  a  commencement, 
but  I  always  had  a  deep  and  well-founded  faith  in 
Lucia. 

"It  never  draws  a  capacity  house,"  I  would  be  told. 

"But  it  never  fails  to  get  a  fair  one. " 

"  It  never  makes  a  sensation. " 

"But  it  never  gets  a  bad  notice."     I  would  say. 

Martha  was  a  light  and  pleasing  part  to  play. 
Vocally  it  taught  me  very  little — little,  that  is  to  say, 
that  I  can  now  recognise,  although  I  am  loath  to  make 
such  a  statement  of  any  role.  There  are  so  many 
slight  and  obscure  ways  in  which  a  part  can  help  one, 
almost  unconsciously.  The  point  that  stands  out  most 
strikingly  in  my  recollection  of  Martha  is  the  rather 
rueful  triumph  I  had  in  it  with  regard  to  realistic  acting. 
Everyone  who  knows  the  story  of  Flotow's  opera  will 
recall  that  the  heroine  is  horribly  bored  in  the  first  act. 
She  is  utterly  uninterested,  utterly  blasee,  utterly  list- 
less. Accordingly,  so  I  played  the  first  act.  Later 
in  the  opera,  when  she  is  in  the  midst  of  interesting 


74  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

happenings  and  no  longer  bored,  she  becomes  animated 
and  eager,  quite  a  different  person  from  the  languid 
great  lady  in  the  beginning.  So,  also,  I  played  that 
part.  Here  came  my  triumph,  although  it  was  a 
left-handed  compliment  aimed  with  the  intention  only 
to  criticise  and  to  criticise  severely.  One  reviewer  said, 
the  morning  after  I  had  first  given  my  careful  and 
logical  interpretation,  that  "it  was  a  pity  Miss  Kellogg 
had  taken  so  little  pains  with  the  first  act.  She  had 
played  it  dully,  stupidly,  without  interest  or  animation. 
Later,  however,  she  brightened  up  a  little  and  some- 
what redeemed  our  impression  of  her  work  as  we  had 
seen  it  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening."  I  felt  angry 
and  hurt  about  this  at  the  time,  yet  it  pleased  me  too, 
for  it  was  a  huge  tribute  even  if  the  critic  did  not  intend 
it  to  be  so. 

Although  I  did  sing  in  Don  Giovanni  under  Grau 
that  year  in  Boston,  I  never  really  considered  it  as 
belonging  to  that  period.  I  did  so  much  with  this 
opera  in  after  years — singing  both  Donna  Anna 
and  Zerlina  at  various  times  and  winning  some  of 
the  most  notable  praise  of  my  career — that  I  always 
instinctively  think  of  it  as  one  of  my  later  and  more 
mature  achievements.  I  always  loved  the  opera  and 
feel  that  it  is  an  invaluable  part  of  every  singer's 
education  to  have  appeared  in  it.  The  Magic  Flute 
never  seemed  to  me  to  be  half  so  genuinely  big  or  so 
inspired.  In  Don  Giovanni  Mozart  gave  us  his  richest 
and  most  complete  flower  of  operatic  work.  In  our 
cast  were  Amodio,  whom  I  had  heard  with  Piccolomini, 
and  Mme.  Medori,  my  old  rival  in  Linda,  who  had 
recently  joined  the  Grau  Company. 

All  this  time  the  war  was  going  on  and  our  opera 
ventures,  even  at  their  best,  were  nothing  to  what  they 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Martha 

From  a  photograph  by  Turner 


Steps  of  tHe  Ladder  75 

had  been  in  the  days  of  peace.  It  seemed  quite  clear 
for  a  while  that  the  old  favourites  would  not  draw 
audiences  from  among  the  anxious  and  sorrowing 
people.  For  a  big  success  we  needed  something  novel, 
sensational,  exceptional. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  world  people  were  all  talking 
of  Gounod's  new  opera — the  one  he  had  sold  for  only 
twelve  hundred  dollars,  but  which  had  made  a  wonder- 
ful hit  both  in  Paris  and  London.  It  was  said  to  be 
startlingly  new;  and  Max  Maretzek,  in  despair  over 
the  many  lukewarm  successes  we  had  all  had,  decided 
to  have  a  look  at  the  score.  The  opera  was  Faust. 

With  all  my  pride,  I  was  terrified  and  appalled  when 
"the  Magnificent"  came  to  me  and  abruptly  told  me 
that  I  was  to  create  the  part  of  Marguerite  in  America. 
This  was  a  "large  order"  for  a  girl  of  twenty;  but  I 
took  my  courage  in  both  hands  and  resolved  to  make 
America  proud  of  me.  I  was  a  pioneer  when  I  under- 
took Gounod's  music  and  I  had  no  notion  of  what  to  do 
with  it,  but  my  will  and  my  ambition  arose  to  meet 
the  situation. 

Just  here,  because  of  its  general  bearing  on  the 
point,  I  feel  that  it  is  desirable  to  quote  a  paragraph 
which  was  written  by  my  old  friend — or  was  he  enemy? 
— many  years  later  when  I  had  won  my  measure  of 
success,  "Nym  Crinkle"  (A.  C.  Wheeler),  and  which 
I  have  always  highly  valued : 

There  is  n't  a  bit  of  snobbishness  about  Kellogg's  opin- 
ions [he  wrote].  For  a  woman  who  has  sung  everywhere, 
she  retains  a  very  wholesome  opinion  of  her  own  country. 
She  always  seems  to  me  to  be  trying  to  win  two  imperishable 
chaplets,  one  of  which  is  for  her  country.  So  you  see  we 
have  got  to  take  our  little  flags  and  wave  them  whether 
it  is  the  correct  thing  or  not.  And,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 


76  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

I  think  it  is  the  correct  thing.  .  .  .  She  has  this  tre- 
mendous advantage  that,  when  she  declares  in  print  that 
America  can  produce  its  own  singers,  she  is  quite  capable 
of  going  afterwards  upon  the  stage  and  proving  it ! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARGUERITE 

MME.  Miolan-Carvalho  created  Marguerite  in  Paris, 
at  the  Theatre  Lyrique.  In  London  Patti  and 
Titjiens  had  both  sung  it  before  we  put  it  on  in 
America, — Adelina  at  Covent  Garden  and  Titjiens 
at  Her  Majesty's  Opera  House,  where  I  was  destined  to 
sing  it  later.  Except  for  these  productions  of  Faust 
across  the  sea,  that  opera  was  still  an  unexplored  field. 
I  had  absolutely  nothing  to  guide  me,  nothing  to  help 
me,  when  I  began  work  on  it.  I,  who  had  been  schooled 
and  trained  in  "traditions"  and  their  observances 
since  I  had  first  begun  to  study,  found  myself  con- 
fronted with  conditions  that  had  as  yet  no  traditions. 
I  had  to  make  them  for  myself. 

Maretzek  secured  the  score  during  the  winter  of 
'62-'63  and  then  spoke  to  me  about  the  music.  I 
worked  at  the  part  off  and  on  for  nine  months,  even 
while  I  was  singing  other  parts  and  taking  my  summer 
vacation.  But  when  the  season  opened  in  the  autumn 
of  1863,  the  performance  was  postponed  because  a 
certain  reaction  had  set  in  on  the  part  of  the  public. 
People  were  beginning  to  want  some  sort  of  distraction 
and  relaxation  from  the  horrors  and  anxieties  of  war, 
and  now  began  to  come  again  to  hear  the  old  favourites. 
So  Maretzek  wanted  to  wait  and  put  off  his  new 
sensation  until  he  really  needed  it  as  a  drawing  card. 

77 


78  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

Then  came  the  news  that  Anschutz,  the  German 
manager,  was  about  to  bring  a  German  company  to 
the  Terrace  Garden  in  New  York  with  a  fine  repertoire 
of  grand  opera,  including  Faust.  Of  course  this  settled 
the  question.  Maretzek  hurried  the  new  opera  into 
final  rehearsal  and  it  was  produced  at  The  Academy  of 
Music  on  November  25,  1863,  when  I  was  very  little 
more  than  twenty  years  old. 

Before  I  myself  say  anything  abouo  Faust,  in  which 
I  was  soon  to  appear,  I  want  to  quote  the  views  of  a 
leading  newspaper  of  New  York  after  I  had  appeared. 

A  brilliant  audience  assembled  last  night.  The  opera 
was  Faust.  Such  an  audience  ought,  in  figurative  lan- 
guage, "to  raise  the  roof  off"  with  applause.  But  with  the 
clumsily  written,  uninspired  melodies  that  the  solo  singers 
have  to  declaim  there  was  the  least  possible  applause. 
And  this  is  not  the  fault  of  the  vocalists,  for  they  tried  their 
best  We  except  to  this  charge  of  dullness  the  dramatic 
love  scene  where  the  tolerably  broad  business  concludes  the 
act.  With  these  facts  plain  to  everyone  present  we  cannot 
comprehend  the  announcement  of  the  success  of  Faust ! 

Who  was  it  said  "the  world  goes  round  with  revolu- 
tions"? It  is  a  great  truth,  whoever  said  it.  Every 
new  step  in  art,  in  progress  along  any  line,  has  cost 
something  and  has  been  fought  for.  Nothing  fresh  or 
good  has  ever  come  into  existence  without  a  convulsion 
of  the  old,  dried-up  forms.  Beethoven  was  a  revolu- 
tionist when  he  threw  aside  established  musical  forms 
with  the  Ninth  Symphony;  Wagner  was  a  revolutionist 
when  he  contrived  impossible  intervals  of  the  eleventh 
and  the  thirteenth,  and  called  them  for  the  first  time 
dissonant  harmonies;  so,  also,  was  Gounod  when  he 
departed  from  all  accepted  operatic  forms  and  institu- 
tions in  Faust. 


Marguerite  79 

You  who  have  heard  Cari  fior  upon  the  hand-organs 
in  the  street,  and  have  whistled  the  Soldiers'  Chorus 
while  you  were  in  school;  who  have  even  grown  to 
regard  the  opera  of  Faust  as  old-fashioned  and  of  light 
weight,  must  re-focus  your  glass  a  bit  and  look  at 
Gounod's  masterpiece  from  the  point  of  view  of  nearly 
fifty  years  ago !  It  was  just  as  startling,  just  as  strange, 
just  as  antagonistic  to  our  established  musical  habit 
as  Strauss  and  Debussy  and  Dukas  are  to  some  persons 
to-day.  What  is  new  must  always  be  strange,  and 
what  is  strange  must,  except  to  a  few  adventurous 
souls,  prove  to  be  disturbing  and,  hence,  disagreeable. 
People  say  "it  is  different,  therefore  it  must  be  wrong. " 
Even  as  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death  are  upsetting 
to  our  lives,  so  Gounod's  bold  harmonies,  sweeping 
airs,  and  curious  orchestration  were  upsetting  to  the 
public  ears. 

Not  the  public  alone,  either.  Though  from  the 
first  I  was  attracted  and  fascinated  by  the  "new 
music,"  it  puzzled  me  vastly.  Also,  I  found  it  very 
difficult  to  sing.  I,  who  had  been  accustomed  to 
Linda  and  Gilda  and  Martha,  felt  utterly  at  sea  when 
I  tried  to  sing  what  at  that  time  seemed  to  me  the 
remarkable  intervals  of  this  strange,  new,  operatic 
heroine,  Marguerite.  In  the  simple  Italian  school 
one  knew  approximately  what  was  ahead.  A  recitative 
was  a  fairly  elementary  affair.  An  aria  had  no  un- 
expected cadences,  led  to  no  striking  nor  unusual 
effects.  But  in  Faust  the  musical  intelligence  had  an 
entirely  new  task  and  was  exercised  quite  differently 
from  in  anything  that  had  gone  before.  This  sequence 
of  notes  was  a  new  and  unlearned  language  to  me, 
which  I  had  to  master  before  I  could  find  freedom  or 
ease.  But  when  once  mastered,  how  the  music  en- 


8o  y\n  American  Prima  Donna 

chanted  me;  how  it  satisfied  a  thirst  that  had  never 
been  satisfied  by  Donizetti  or  Bellini!  Musically,  I 
loved  the  part  of  Marguerite — and  I  still  love  it. 
Dramatically,  I  confess  to  some  impatience  over  the 
imbecility  of  the  girl.  From  the  first  I  summarily 
apostrophised  her  to  myself  as  "a  little  fool!" 

Stupidity  is  really  the  keynote  of  Marguerite's 
character.  She  was  not  quite  a  peasant — she  and  her 
brother  owned  their  house,  showing  that  they  belonged 
to  the  stolid,  sound,  sheltered  burgher  class.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  explicitly  states  to  Faust  that  she 
is  "not  a  lady  and  needs  no  escort."  In  short,  she 
was  the  ideal  victim  and  was  selected  as  such  by 
Mephistopheles  who,  whatever  else  he  may  have  been, 
was  a  judge  of  character.  Marguerite  was  an  easy 
dupe.  She  was  entirely  without  resisting  power.  She 
was  dull,  and  sweet,  and  open  to  flattery.  She  liked 
pretty  things,  with  no  more  discrimination  or  taste 
than  other  girls.  She  was  a  well-brought-up  but 
uneducated  young  person  of  an  ignorant  age  and  of  a 
stupid  class,  and  innocent  to  the  verge  of  idiocy. 

I  used  to  try  and  suggest  the  peasant  blood  in 
Marguerite  by  little  shynesses  and  awkwardnesses. 
After  the  first  meeting  with  Faust  I  would  slyly 
stop  and  glance  back  at  him  with  girlish  curiosity  to 
see  what  he  looked  like.  People  found  this  "business " 
very  pretty  and  convincing,  but  I  understand  that  I 
did  not  give  the  typically  Teutonic  bourgeois  impression 
as  well  as  Federici,  a  German  soprano  who  was  heard 
in  America  after  me.  She  was  of  the  class  of  Gretchen, 
and  doubtless  found  it  easier  to  act  like  a  peasant 
unused  to  having  fine  gentlemen  speak  to  her,  than 
I  did. 

There  was  very  little  general  enthusiasm  before  the 


Marguerite  81 

production  of  Faust.  There  were  so  few  American 
musicians  then  that  no  one  knew  nor  cared  about  the 
music.  Neither  was  the  poem  so  well  read  as  it  was 
later.  The  public  went  to  the  opera  houses  to  hear 
popular  singers  and  familiar  airs.  They  had  not  the 
slightest  interest  in  a  new  opera  from  an  artistic 
standpoint. 

I  had  never  been  allowed  to  read  Goethe's  poem 
until  I  began  to  study  Marguerite.  But  even  my 
careful  mother  was  obliged  to  admit  that  I  would  have 
to  familiarise  myself  with  the  character  before  I 
interpreted  it.  It  is  doubtful,  even  then,  if  I  entered 
fully  into  the  emotional  and  psychological  grasp  of  the 
role.  All  that  part  of  it  was  with  me  entirely  mental. 
I  could  seize  the  complete  mental  possibilities  of  a 
character  and  work  them  out  intelligently  long  before 
I  had  any  emotional  comprehension  of  them.  As  a 
case  in  point,  when  I  sang  Gilda  I  gave  a  perfectly 
logical  presentation  of  the  character,  but  I  am  very 
sure  that  I  had  not  the  least  notion  of  what  the  latter 
part  of  Rigoletto  meant.  Fear,  grief,  love,  courage,— 
these  were  emotions  that  I  could  accept  and  with 
which  I  could  work;  but  I  was  still  too  immature  to 
have  much  conception  of  the  great  sex  complications 
that  underlay  the  opera  that  I  sang  so  peacefully. 
And  I  dare  say  that  one  reason  why  I  played  Mar- 
guerite so  well  was  because  I  was  so  ridiculously 
innocent  myself. 

Most  of  the  Marguerites  whom  I  have  seen  make 
her  too  sophisticated,  too  complicated.  The  moment 
they  get  off  the  beaten  path,  they  go  to  extremes  like 
Calve  and  Farrar.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  be  original 
and  daring  in  a  part,  but  anything  original  or  daring 
in  connection  with  Marguerite  is  a  little  like  mixing 


82  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

red  pepper  with  vanilla  blanc  mange.  Nilsson,  even, 
was  too — shall  I  say,  knowing?  It  seems  the  only 
word  that  fits  my  meaning.  Nilsson  was  much  the 
most  attractive  of  all  the  Marguerites  I  have  ever 
seen,  yet  she  was  altogether  too  sophisticated  for  the 
character  and  for  the  period,  although  to-day  I  suppose 
she  would  be  considered  quite  mild.  Lucca  was  an 
absolute  little  devil  in  the  part.  She  was,  also,  one 
of  the  Marguerites  who  wore  black  hair.  As  for 
Patti — I  have'  a  picture  of  Adelina  as  Marguerite  in 
which  she  looks  like  Satan's  own  daughter,  a  young 
and  feminine  Mephistopheles  to  the  life.  Once  I  heard 
Faust  in  the  Segundo  Teatro  of  Naples  with  Alice 
Neilson,  and  thought  she  gave  a  charming  performance. 
She  was  greatly  helped  by  not  having  to  wear  a  wig. 
A  wig,  however  becoming,  and  no  matter  how  well  put 
on,  does  certainly  do  something  strange  to  the  expres- 
sion of  a  woman's  face.  This  was  what  I  had  to  have — 
a  wig — and  it  was  one  of  the  most  dreadful  difficulties 
in  my  preparations  for  the  great  new  part. 

A  wig  may  sound  like  a  simple  requirement.  But  I 
wonder  if  anybody  has  any  idea  how  difficult  it  was  to 
get  a  good  wig  in  those  days.  Nobody  in  America 
knew  how  to  make  one.  There  was  no  blond  hair  over 
here  and  none  could  be  procured,  none  being  for  sale. 
The  poor  affair  worn  by  Mme.  Carvalho  as  Mar- 
guerite, illustrates  what  was  then  considered  a  suffi- 
cient wig  equipment.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add 
that  to  my  truth-loving  soul  no  effort  was  too  great 
to  obtain  an  effect  that  should  be  an  improvement  on 
this  sort  of  thing.  My  own  hair  was  so  dark  as  to 
look  almost  black  behind  the  footlights,  and  in  my  mind 
there  was  no  doubt  that  Marguerite  must  be  a  blond. 
To-day  prime  donne  besides  Lucca  justify  the  use  of 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Marguerite,  1865 

From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 


Marg'\ierite  83 

their  own  dark  locks — notably  Mme.  Eames  and  Miss 
Farrar — but  I  cannot  help  suspecting  that  this  comes 
chiefly  from  a  wish  to  be  original,  to  be  different  at  all 
costs.  There  is  no  real  question  but  that  the  young 
German  peasant  was  fair  to  the  flaxen  point.  Yet, 
though  I  knew  how  she  should  be,  I  found  it  was 
simpler  as  a  theory  than  as  a  fact.  I  tried  powders — 
light  brown  powder,  yellow  powder,  finally,  gold  powder. 
The  latter  was  little,  I  imagine,  but  brass  filings,  and 
it  gave  the  best  effect  of  all  my  early  experiments, 
looking,  so  long  as  it  stayed  on  my  hair,  very  burnished 
and  sunny.  But — it  turned  my  scalp  green!  This 
was  probably  the  verdigris  from  the  brass  filings  in  the 
stuff.  I  was  frightened  enough  to  dispense  entirely 
with  the  whole  gold  and  green  effect;  after  which  I 
experimented  with  all  the  available  wigs,  in  spite  of  a 
popular  prejudice  against  them  as  immovable.  They 
were  in  general  composed  of  hemp  rope  with  about  as 
much  look  about  them  of  real  hair  as — Mme.  Car- 
valho's!  I  had,  finally,  to  wait  until  I  could  get  a 
wig  made  in  Europe  and  have  it  imported.  When  it 
came  at  last,  it  was  a  beauty — although  my  hair 
troubles  were  not  entirely  over  even  then.  I  had  so 
much  hair  of  my  own  that  all  the  braiding  and  pinning 
in  the  world  would  not  eliminate  it  entirely,  and  it  had 
a  tendency  to  stick  out  in  lumps  over  my  head  even 
under  the  wig,  giving  me  some  remarkable  bumps  of 
phrenological  development.  I  will  say  that  we  put 
it  on  pretty  well  in  spite  of  all  difficulties,  my  mother  at 
last  achieving  a  way  of  brushing  the  hair  of  the  wig 
into  my  own  hair  and  combining  the  two  in  such  a  way 
as  to  let  the  real  hair  act  as  a  padding  and  lining  to  the 
artificial  braids.  The  result  was  very  good,  but  it  was, 
I  am  inclined  to  believe,  more  trouble  than  it  was 


84  -An  American  Prima  Donna 

worth.  Wigs  were  so  rare  and,  as  a  rule,  so  ugly  in 
those  days  that  my  big,  blond  perruque,  that  cost 
nearly  $200  (the  hair  was  sold  by  weight),  caused 
the  greatest  sensation.  People  not  infrequently  came 
behind  the  scenes  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  examine 
it.  Artists  were  not  nearly  so  sacred  nor  so  safe  from 
the  public  then.  Now,  it  would  be  impossible  for  a 
stranger  to  penetrate  to  a  prima  donna's  dressing-room 
or  hotel  apartment;  but  we  were  constantly  assailed 
by  the  admiring,  the  critical  and,  above  all,  the  curious. 

Of  course  I  did  not  know  what  to  wear.  My  old 
friend  Ella  Porter  was  in  Paris  at  the  time  and  went  to 
see  Carvalho  in  Marguerite,  especially  on  my  account, 
and  sent  me  rough  drawings  of  her  costumes.  I  did 
not  like  them  very  well.  I  next  studied  von  Kaul- 
bach's  pictures  and  those  of  other  German  illustrators, 
and  finally  decided  on  the  dress.  First,  I  chose  for  the 
opening  act  a  simple  blue  and  brown  frock,  such  as  an 
upper-class  peasant  might  wear.  Everyone  said  it 
ought  to  be  white,  which  struck  me  as  singularly  out 
of  place.  German  girls  don't  wear  frocks  that  have  to 
be  constantly  washed.  Not  even  now  do  they,  and  I 
am  certain  they  had  even  less  laundry  work  in  the 
period  of  the  story.  It  was  said  that  a  white  gown  in 
the  first  act  would  symbolise  innocence.  In  the  face 
of  all  comment  and  suggestion,  however,  I  wore  the 
blue  dress  trimmed  with  brown  and  it  looked  very  well. 
Another  one  of  my  points  was  that  I  did  not  try  to 
make  Marguerite  angelically  beautiful.  There  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  she  was  even  particularly 
pretty.  "Henceforth,"  says  Mephisto  to  the  rejuven- 
ated Faustus,  "you  will  greet  a  Helen  in  every  wench 
you  meet!" 

In  the  church  scene  I  wore  grey  and,   at  first,   a 


Marguerite  85 

different  shade  of  grey  in  the  last  act;  but  I  changed 
this  eventually  to  white  because  white  looked  better 
when  the  angels  were  carrying  me  up  to  heaven. 

As  for  the  cut  of  the  dresses,  I  seem  to  have  been 
the  first  person  to  wear  a  bodice  that  fitted  below  the 
waist  line  like  a  corset.  No  living  mortal  in  America 
had  ever  seen  such  a  thing  and  it  became  almost  as 
much  of  a  curiosity  as  my  wonderful  golden  wig.  The 
theatre  costumier  was  horrified.  She  had  never  cared 
for  my  innovations  in  the  way  of  costuming,  and  her 
tradition-loving  Latin  soul  was  shocked  to  the  core  by 
the  new  and  dreadful  make-up  I  proposed  to  wear  as 
Marguerite. 

"I  make  for  Grisi, "  she  declared  indignantly,  "and 
I  nevair  see  like  dat!" 

Well,  I  worked  and  struggled  and  slaved  over  every 
detail.  No  one  else  did.  There  was  no  great  effort 
made  to  have  good  scenic  effects.  The  lighting  was 
absurd,  and  I  had  to  fight  for  my  pot  of  daisies  in  the 
garden  scene.  The  jewel  box  I  provided  myself,  and 
the  jewels.  I  felt — O,  how  deeply  I  felt — that  every- 
thing in  my  life,  every  note  I  had  sung,  every  day  I  had 
worked,  had  been  merely  preparation  for  this  great  and 
lovely  opera. 

Colonel  Stebbins,  who  was  anxious,  said  to  Maretzek  : 

"Don't  you  think  she  had  better  have  a  German 
coach  in  the  part?" 

Maretzek,  who  had  been  watching  me  closely  all 
along,  shook  his  head. 

"Let  her  alone,"  he  said.  "Let  her  do  it  her  own 
way." 

So  the  great  night  came  around. 

There  was  no  public  excitement  before  the  produc- 
tion. People  knew  nothing  about  the  new  opera.  On 


86  An  American  Prima  Donna 

the  first  night  of  Faust  there  was  a  good  house  because, 
frankly,  the  public  liked  me !  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of 
"me, "  the  house  was  a  little  inanimate.  The  audience 
felt  doubtful.  It  was  one  thing  to  warm  up  an  old  and 
popular  piece ;  but  something  untried  was  very  different ! 
The  public  had  none  of  the  present-day  chivalry  toward 
the  first  "try-out"  of  an  opera. 

Mazzoleni  of  the  cheese  addiction  was  Faust,  and 
on  that  first  night  he  had  eaten  even  more  than  usual. 
In  fact,  he  was  still  eating  cheese  when  the  curtain 
went  up  and  munched  cheese  at  intervals  all  through 
the  laboratory  scene.  He  was  a  big  Italian  with  a 
voice  as  big  as  himself  and  was,  in  a  measure,  one  of 
Max  Maretzek's  "finds."  "The  Magnificent"  had 
taken  an  opera  company  to  Havana  when  first  the  war 
slump  came  in  operatic  affairs,  and  had  made  with  it  a 
huge  success  and  a  wide  reputation.  Mazzoleni  was 
one  of  the  leading  tenors  of  that  company.  He 
sang  Faust  admirably,  but  dressed  it  in  an  atrocious 
fashion,  looking  like  a  cross  between  a  Jewish  rabbi 
and  a  Prussian  gene  d'arme.  Of  course,  he  gave  no 
idea  of  the  true  age  of  Faust — the  experienced, 
mature  point  of  view  showing  through  the  outward 
bloom  of  his  artificial  youth.  Very  few  Fausts  do 
give  this;  and  Mazzoleni  suggested  it  rather  less  than 
most  of  them.  But  the  public  was  not  enlightened 
enough  to  realise  the  lack. 

Biachi  was  Mephistopheles.  He  was  very  good 
and  sang  the  Calf  of  Gold  splendidly.  Yet  that  solo, 
oddly  enough,  never  "caught  on"  with  our  houses. 
Biachi  was  one  of  the  few  artists  of  my  day  who  gave 
real  thought  and  attention  to  the  question  of  costum- 
ing. He  took  his  general  scheme  of  dress  from  Robert 
le  Diable  and  improved  on  it,  and  looked  very  well 


Marguerite  87 

indeed.  The  woman  he  afterwards  married  was  our 
contralto,  a  Miss  Sulzer,  an  American,  who  made  an 
excellent  Siebel  and  considered  her  work  seriously. 

At  first  everyone  was  stunned  by  the  new  treatment. 
In  ordinary,  accepted  operatic  form  there  were  certain 
things  to  be  expected; — recitatives,  andantes,  arias, 
choruses — all  neatly  laid  out  according  to  rule.  In 
this  everything  was  new,  startling,  overthrowing  all  tra- 
ditions. About  the  middle  of  the  evening  some  of  my 
friends  came  behind  the  scenes  to  my  dressing-room 
with  blank  faces. 

"Heavens,  Louise,"  they  exclaimed,  "what  do  you 
do  in  this  opera  anyway?  Everyone  in  the  front  of 
the  house  is  asking  '  where  's  the  prima  donna  ?  ' ' 

Indeed,  an  opera  in  which  the  heroine  has  nothing 
to  do  until  the  third  act  might  well  have  startled  a 
public  accustomed  to  the  old  Italian  forms.  However, 
I  assured  everyone: 

"  Don't  worry.  You  '11  get  more  than  enough  of  me 
before  the  end  of  the  evening!" 

The  house  was  not  much  stirred  until  the  love 
scene.  That  was  breathless.  We  felt  more  and  more 
that  we  were  beginning  to  "get  them." 

There  were  no  modern  effects  of  lighting;  but  a 
calcium  was  thrown  on  me  as  I  stood  by  the  window, 
and  I  sang  my  very,  very  best.  As  Mazzoleni  came  up 
to  the  window  and  the  curtain  went  down  there  was  a 
dead  silence. 

Not  a  hand  for  ten  seconds.  Ten  seconds  is  a  long 
time  when  one  is  waiting  on  the  stage.  Time  and  the 
clock  itself  seemed  to  stop  as  we  stood  there  motionless 
and  breathless.  Maretzek  had  time  to  get  through 
the  little  orchestra  door  and  up  on  the  stage  before  the 
applause  came.  We  were  standing  as  though  paralysed, 


An  American  Prima  Donna 

waiting.  We  saw  Maretzek's  pale,  anxious  face.  The 
silence  held  a  second  longer ;  then— 

The  house  came  down.  The  thunders  echoed  and 
beat  about  our  wondering  ears. 

"Success!"  gasped  Maretzek,  "success — success — 
success!  " 

Yet  read  what  the  critics  said  about  it.  The  musi- 
cians picked  it  to  pieces,  of  course,  and  so  did  the 
critics,  much  as  the  German  reviewers  did  Wagner's 
music  dramas.  The  public  came,  however,  packing 
the  houses  to  more  than  their  capacity.  People  paid 
seven  and  eight  dollars  a  seat  to  hear  that  opera,  an 
unheard-of  thing  in  those  days  when  two  and  three 
dollars  were  considered  a  very  fair  price  for  any  enter- 
tainment. Furthermore,  only  the  women  occupied  the 
seats  on  the  Faust  nights.  I  speak  in  a  general  way, 
for  there  were  exceptions.  As  a  rule,  however,  this 
was  so,  while  the  men  stood  up  in  regiments  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  We  gave  twenty-seven  performances  of 
Faust  in  one  season;  seven  performances  in  Boston  in 
four  weeks ;  and  I  could  not  help  the  welcome  knowledge 
that,  in  addition  to  the  success  of  the  opera  itself,  I 
had  scored  a  big,  personal  triumph. 

As  I  have  mentioned,  we  took  wicked  liberties  with 
the  operas,  such  as  introducing  the  Star  Spangled 
Banner  and  similar  patriotic  songs  into  the  middle  of 
Italian  scores.  I  have  even  seen  a  highly  tragic  act  of 
Poliuto  put  in  between  the  light  and  cheery  scenes  of 
Martha;  and  I  have  myself  sung  the  Venzano  waltz  at 
the  end  of  this  same  Martha,  although  the  real  quartette 
that  is  supposed  to  close  the  opera  is  much  more 
beautiful,  and  the  Clara  Louise  Polka  as  a  finish  for 
Linda  di  Chamounix!  The  Clara  Louise  Polka  was 
written  for  me  by  my  old  master,  Muzio,  and  I  never 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Marguerite,  1864 

From  a  silhouette  by  Ida  Waugh 


Marguerite  89 

thought  much  of  it.  Nothing  could  give  anyone  so 
clear  an  idea  of  the  universal  acceptance  of  this  custom 
of  interpolation  as  the  following  criticism,  printed 
during  our  second  season : 

"The  production  of  Faust  last  evening  by  the 
Maretzek  troupe  was  excellent  indeed.  But  why,  O 
why,  the  eternal  Soldiers'  Chorus?  Why  this  ever- 
lasting, tedious  march,  when  there  are  so  many  excellent 
band  pieces  on  the  market  that  would  fit  the  occasion 
better?" 

As  a  rule  the  public  were  quite  satisfied  with  this 
chorus.  It  was  whistled  and  sung  all  over  the  country 
and  never  failed  to  get  eager  applause.  But  no  part 
of  the  opera  ever  went  so  well  as  the  Salve  dimora 
and  the  love  scene.  All  the  latter  part  of  the  gar- 
den act  went  splendidly  although  nearly  everyone  was, 
or  professed  to  be,  shocked  by  the  frankness  of  the 
window  episode  that  closes  it.  It  is  a  pity  those  simple- 
souled  audiences  could  not  have  lived  to  see  Miss 
Geraldine  Farrar  draw  Faust  with  her  into  the  house 
at  the  fall  of  the  curtain !  There  is,  indeed,  a  place  for 
all  things.  Faust  is  not  the  place  for  that  sort  of 
suggestiveness.  It  is  a  question,  incidentally,  whether 
any  stage  production  is;  but  the  argument  of  that  is 
outside  our  present  point. 

Dear  Longfellow  came  to  see  the  first  performance 
of  Faust;  and  the  next  day  he  wrote  a  charming  letter 
about  it  to  Mr.  James  T.  Fields  of  Boston.  Said  he: 

"The  Margaret  was  beautiful.  She  reminded  me  of 
Dryden's  lines : 

"  'So  pois'd,  so  gently  she  descends  from  high, 
It  seems  a  soft  dismission  from  the  sky.  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

OPERA  COMIQUE 

r"PO  most  persons  "opera  comique"  means  simply 
1  comic  opera.  If  they  make  any  distinction  at 
all  it  is  to  call  it  "high-class  comic  opera. "  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  tragedy  and  comedy  are  hardly  farther  apart 
in  spirit  than  are  the  rough  and  farcical  stuff  that  we 
look  upon  as  comic  opera  nowadays  and  the  charming 
old  pieces  that  formed  the  true  "opera  comique"  some 
fifty  years  ago.  "Opera  bouffe"  even  is  many  degrees 
below  "opera  comique."  Yet  "opera  bouffe"  is,  to 
my  mind,  something  infinitely  superior  and  many 
steps  higher  than  modern  comic  opera.  So  we  have 
some  delicate  differentiations  to  make  when  we  go 
investigating  in  the  fields  of  light  dramatic  music. 

In  Paris  at  the  Comique  they  try  to  keep  the  older 
distinction  in  mind  when  selecting  their  operas  for 
production.  There  are  exceptions  to  this  rule,  as  to 
others,  for  play-houses  that  specialise;  but  for  the  most 
part  these  Paris  managers  choose  operas  that  are  light. 
I  use  the  word  advisedly.  By  light  I  mean,  literally, 
not  heavy.  Light  music,  light  drama,  does  not  neces- 
sarily mean  humorous.  It  may,  on  the  contrary, 
be  highly  pathetic  and  charged  with  sentiment.  The 
only  restriction  is  that  it  shall  not  be  expressed  in 
the  stentorian  orchestration  of  a  Meyerbeer,  nor  in  the 
heart-rending  tragedy  of  a  Wagner.  In  theme  and 

90 


Opera  Comique  91 

in  treatment,  in  melodies  and  in  text,  it  must  be  of 
delicate  fibre,  something  easily  seized  and  swiftly 
assimilated,  something  intimate,  perfumed,  and  agree- 
able, with  no  more  harshness  of  emotion  than  of 
harmony. 

Judged  by  this  standard  such  operas  as  Martha,  La 
Boheme,  even  Carmen — possibly,  even  Werther — are  not 
entirely  foreign  to  the  requirements  of  "opera  com- 
ique. "  Le  Donne  Curiose  may  be  considered  as  an 
almost  perfect  revival  and  exemplification  of  the  form. 
A  careful  differentiation  discovers  that  humour,  a 
happy  ending,  and  many  rollicking  melodies  do  not  at 
all  make  an  "opera  comique. "  These  qualities  all 
belong  abundantly  to  Die  Meister singer  and  to  Verdi's 
Falstaff,  yet  these  great  operas  are  no  nearer  being 
examples  of  genuine  "comique"  than  Les  Huguenots 
is  or  G  otter dammerung. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  sing  in  the  space  of  a 
year  three  delightful  roles  in  "opera  comique,"  each 
of  which  I  enjoyed  hugely.  They  were  Zerlina  in 
Fra  Diavolo;  Rosina  in  //  Barbiere;  and  Annetta  in 
Crispino  e  la  Comare.  Fra  Diavolo  was  first  produced 
in  Italian  in  America  during  the  autumn  of  1864,  the 
year  after  I  appeared  in  Marguerite,  and  it  remained 
one  of  our  most  popular  operas  throughout  the 
season  of  '65~'66.  I  loved  it  and  always  had  a  good 
time  the  nights  it  was  given.  We  put  it  on  for  my 
"benefit"  at  the  end  of  the  regular  winter  season  at 
the  Academy.  The  season  closed  with  the  old  year 
and  the  "benefit"  took  place  on  the  28th  of  December. 
The  "benefit"  custom  was  very  general  in  those  days. 
Everybody  had  one  a  year  and  so  I  had  to  have  mine, 
or,  at  least,  Maretzek  thought  I  had  to  have  it.  Fra 
Diavolo  was  his  choice  for  this  occasion  as  I  had  made 


92  .An  -American  Prima  Donna 

one  of  my  best  successes  in  the  part  of  Zerlina,  and 
the  opera  had  been  the  most  liked  in  our  whole  reper- 
toire with  the  exception  of  Faust.  Faust  had  remained 
from  the  beginning  our  most  unconditional  success, 
our  cheval  de  bataille,  and  never  failed  to  pack  the 
house. 

I  don't  know  quite  why  that  Fra  Diavolo  night 
stands  out  so  happily  and  vividly  in  my  memory.  I 
have  had  other  and  more  spectacular  "benefits";  but 
that  evening  there  seemed  to  be  the  warmest  and  most 
personal  of  atmospheres  in  the  old  Academy.  The 
audience  was  full  of  friends  and,  what  with  the  glimpses 
I  had  of  these  familiar  faces  and  my  loads  of  lovely 
flowers  and  the  kindly,  intimate  enthusiasm  that 
greeted  my  appearance,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  at  a  party 
and  not  playing  a  performance  at  all.  I  had  to  come 
out  again  and  again;  and  finally  became  so  wrought  up 
that  I  was  nearly  in  tears. 

As  a  climax  I  was  entirely  overcome  when  I  suddenly 
turned  to  find  Maretzek  standing  beside  me  in  the 
middle  of  the  stage,  smiling  at  me  in  a  friendly  and 
encouraging  manner.  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
what  his  presence  there  at  that  moment  meant.  The 
applause  stopped  instantly.  Whereupon  "Max  the 
Magnificent"  made  a  little  speech  in  the  quick  hush, 
saying  charming  and  overwhelming  things  about  the 
young  girl  whose  musical  beginning  he  had  watched 
and  who  in  a  few  years  had  reached  "a  high  pinnacle 
in  the  world  of  art.  The  young  girl" — he  went  on  to 
say — "who  at  twenty-one  was  the  foremost  prima 
donna  of  America. " 

"And  now,  my  dear  Miss  Kellogg,"  he  wound  up 
with,  holding  out  to  me  a  velvet  case,  "  I  am  instructed 
by  the  stockholders  of  the  Opera  Company  to  hand  you 


Opera  Comiqvie  93 

this,  to  remind  you  of  their  admiration  and  their  pride 
in  you!" 

I  took  the  case;  and  the  house  cheered  and  cheered 
as  I  lifted  out  of  it  a  wonderful  flashing  diamond  brace- 
let and  diamond  ring.  Of  course  I  could  n't  speak. 
I  could  hardly  say  "thank  you."  I  just  ran  off  with 
eyes  and  heart  overflowing  to  the  wings  where  my 
mother  was  waiting  for  me. 

The  bracelet  and  the  ring  are  among  the  dearest 
things  I  possess.  Their  value  to  me  is  much  greater 
than  any  money  could  be,  for  they  symbolise  my  young 
girl's  sudden  comprehension  of  the  fact  that  I  had  made 
my  countrymen  proud  of  me!  That  seemed  like  the 
high-water  mark;  the  finest  thing  that  could  happen. 

Annetta  was  my  second  creation.  There  could 
hardly  be  imagined  a  greater  contrast  than  she  pre- 
sented to  the  part  of  Marguerite.  Gretchen  was 
all  the  virtues  in  spite  of  her  somewhat  spectacular 
career;  gentleness  and  sweetness  itself.  Annetta,  the 
ballad  singer,  was  quite  the  opposite.  I  must  say 
that  I  really  enjoyed  making  myself  shrewish,  sparkling, 
and  audacious.  Perhaps  I  thus  took  out  in  the  lighter 
roles  I  sang  many  of  my  own  suppressed  tendencies. 
Although  I  lived  such  an  essentially  ungirlish  life, 
I  was,  nevertheless,  full  of  youthful  feeling  and 
high  spirits,  so,  when  I  was  Annetta  or  Zerlina  or 
Rosina,  I  had  a  flying  chance  to  "bubble"  just  a 
little  bit.  Merriment  is  one  of  the  finest  and  most 
helpful  emotions  in  the  world  and  I  dare  say  we  all 
have  the  possibilities  of  it  in  us,  one  way  or  another. 
But  it  is  a  shy  sprite  and  does  not  readily  come  to  one's 
call.  I  often  think  that  the  art,  or  the  ability, — on  the 
stage  or  off  it — which  makes  people  truly  and  inno- 
cently gay,  is  very  high  in  the  scale  of  human  import- 


94  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

ance.  Personally,  I  have  never  been  happier  than 
when  I  was  frolicking  through  some  entirely  light- 
weight opera,  full  of  whims  and  quirks  and  laughing 
music.  I  used  to  feel  intimately  in  touch  with  the 
whole  audience  then,  as  though  they  and  I  were  shar- 
ing some  exquisite  secret  or  delicious  joke;  and  I  would 
reach  a  point  of  ease  and  spontaneity  which  I  have 
never  achieved  in  more  serious  work. 

Crispino  had  made  a  tremendous  hit  in  Paris  the 
year  before  when  Malibran  had  sung  Annetta  with 
brilliant  success.  It  has  been  sometimes  said  that 
Grisi  created  the  role  of  Annetta  in  America;  but  I 
still  cling  to  the  claim  of  that  distinction  for  myself. 
The  composers  of  the  opera  were  the  Rice  brothers. 
I  do  not  know  of  any  other  case  where  an  opera  has 
been  written  fraternally ;  and  it  was  such  a  'highly  suc- 
cessful little  opera  that  I  wish  I  knew  more  about  the 
two  men  who  were  responsible  for  it.  All  that  I 
remember  clearly  is  that  they  both  of  them  knew  music 
thoroughly  and  that  one  of  them  taught  it  as  a  pro- 
fession. 

Our  first  Cobbler  in  Crispino  e  la  Comare  ("The 
Cobbler  and  the  Fairy")  was  Rovere,  a  good  Italian 
buffo  baritone.  He  was  one  of  those  extraordinary 
artists  whose  art  grows  and  increases  with  time  and, 
by  some  law  of  compensation,  comes  more  and  more 
to  take  the  place  of  mere  voice.  Rovere  was  in  his 
prime  in  1852  when  he  sang  in  America  with  Mme. 
Alboni.  Later,  when  he  sang  with  me,  a  few  of  the 
New  York  critics  remembered  him  and  knew  his  work 
and  agreed  that  he  was  "as  good  as  ever."  His  voice 
— no.  But  his  art,  his  method,  his  delightful  manner— 
these  did  not  deteriorate.  On  the  contrary,  they  ma- 
tured and  ripened.  Our  second  Cobbler,  Ronconi, 


Opera   Comiqxie  95 

was  even  more  remarkable.  He  was,  I  believe,  one 
of  the  finest  Italian  baritones  that  ever  lived,  and  he 
succeeded  in  getting  a  degree  of  genuine  high  comedy 
out  of  the  part  that  I  have  never  seen  surpassed.  He 
used  to  tell  of  himself  a  story  of  the  time  when  he  was 
singing  in  the  Royal  Opera  of  Petersburg.  The  Czar — 
father  of  the  one  who  was  murdered — said  to  him  once : 

"Ronconi,  I  understand  that  you  are  so  versatile 
that  you  can  express  tragedy  with  one  side  of  your 
face  when  you  are  singing  and  comedy  with  the  other. 
How  do  you  do  it?" 

"Your  Majesty,"  rejoined  Ronconi,  "when  I  sing 
Maria  de  Rohan  to-morrow  night  I  will  do  myself  the 
honour  of  showing  you. " 

And,  accordingly,  the  next  evening  he  managed  to 
turn  one  side  of  his  face,  grim  as  the  Tragic  Mask,  to 
the  audience,  while  the  other,  which  could  be  seen 
from  only  the  Imperial  Box,  was  excessively  humorous 
and  cheerful.  The  Czar  was  greatly  amused  and 
delighted  with  the  exhibition. 

Once  in  London,  Santley  was  talking  with  me  about 
this  great  baritone  and  said : 

"Ronconi  did  something  with  a  phrase  in  the  sex- 
tette of  Lucia  that  I  have  gone  to  hear  many  and 
many  a  night.  I  never  could  manage  to  catch  it  or 
comprehend  how  he  gave  so  much  power  and  expression 
to 


l'ho-tra-di  -  ta! 


Ronconi  was  deliciously  amusing,  also,  as  the  Lord 
in  Fra  Diavolo.  He  sang  it  with  me  the  first  time  it 
was  ever  done  here  in  Italian,  when  Theodor  Habel- 


96  .A.n  j\merican  Prima  Donna 

mann  was  our  Diavolo.  Though  he  was  a  round- 
faced  German,  he  was  so  dark  of  skin  and  so  finely 
built  that  he  made  up  excellently  as  an  Italian;  and  he 
had  been  thoroughly  trained  in  the  splendid  school  of 
German  light  opera.  He  was  really  picturesque,  es- 
pecially in  a  wonderful  fall  he  made  from  one  precipice 
to  another.  We  were  not  accustomed  to  falls  on  the 
stage  over  here,  and  had  never  seen  anything  like  it. 
Ronconi  sang  with  me  some  years  later,  as  well,  when 
I  gave  English  opera  throughout  the  country,  and  I 
came  to  know  him  quite  well.  He  was  a  man  of  great 
elegance  and  decorum. 

"You  know,"  he  said  to  me  once,  "I  'm  a  sly  dog— 
a  very  sly  dog  indeed !  When  I  sing  off  the  key  on  the 
stage  or  do  anything  like  that,  I  always  turn  and  look 
in  an  astounded  manner  at  the  person  singing  with  me 
as  if  to  say  'what  on  earth  did  you  do  that  for?'  and 
the  other  artist,  perfectly  innocent,  invariably  looks 
guilty!  O,  I  'm  a  very  sly  dog!" 

Don  Pasquale  was  another  of  our  "opera  comique" 
ventures,  as  well  as  La  Dame  Blanche  and  Masaniello. 
It  was  a  particularly  advantageous  choice  at  the  time 
because  it  required  neither  chorus  nor  orchestra.  We 
sang  it  with  nothing  but  a  piano  by  way  of  accompani- 
ment; which  possibly  was  a  particularly  useful  arrange- 
ment for  us  when  we  became  short  of  cash,  for  we — 
editorially,  or,  rather,  managerially  speaking — were 
rather  given  in  those  early  seasons  to  becoming  sud- 
denly "hard  up,"  especially  when  to  the  poor  operatic 
conditions,  engendered  spasmodically  by  the  war  news, 
was  added  the  wet  blanket  of  Lent  which,  in  those 
days,  was  observed  most  rigidly. 

Of  the  three  roles,  Zerlina,  Rosina,  and  Annetta, 
I  always  preferred  that  of  Rosina.  It  was  one  of 


Opera   Comiqvie  97 

my  best  roles,  the  music  being  excellently  placed 
for  me.  77  Barbiere  had  led  the  school  of  "opera 
comique"  for  years,  but  soon,  one  after  the  other,  the 
new  operas — notably  Crispino — were  hailed  as  the 
legitimate  successor  of  //  Barbiere,  and  their  novelty 
gave  them  a  drawing  power  in  advance  of  their  rational 
value.  In  addition  to  my  personal  liking  for  the  role 
of  Rosina,  I  always  felt  that,  although  the  other 
operas  were  charming  in  every  way,  they  musically 
were  not  quite  in  the  class  with  Rossini's  masterpiece. 
The  light  and  delicate  qualities  of  this  form  of  operatic 
art  have  never  been  given  so  perfectly  as  by  him.  I 
wish  //  Barbiere  were  more  frequently  heard. 

Yet  I  was  fond  of  Fra  Diavolo  too.  I  was  forever 
working  at  the  role  of  Zerlina  or,  rather,  playing  at 
it,  for  the  old  "opera  comique"  was  never  really  work 
to  me.  It  was  all  infectious  and  inspiring;  the  music 
full  of  melody;  the  story  light  and  pretty.  Many  of 
the  critics  said  that  I  ought  to  specialise  in  comedy, 
cut  out  my  tragic  and  romantic  roles,  and  attempt 
even  lighter  music  and  characterisation  than  Zerlina. 
People  seemed  particularly  to  enjoy  my  "going  to  bed" 
scene.  They  praised  my  "neatness  and  daintiness" 
and  found  the  whole  picture  very  pretty  and  attractive. 
I  used  to  take  off  my  skirt  first,  shake  it  well,  hang  it  on 
a  nail,  then  discover  a  spot  and  carefully  rub  it  out. 
That  little  bit  of  "business"  always  got  a  laugh — I  do 
not  quite  know  why.  Then  I  would  take  off  my 
bodice  dreamily  as  I  sang:  "To-morrow — yes,  to-mor- 
row I  am  to  be  married!" 


Si,    do-ma-ni,      Si,    do-ma-ni     sa-rem  ma-ri-to  e  moghi, 


98  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

One  night  while  I  was  carrying  the  candle  in  that 
scene  a  gust  of  wind  from  the  wings  made  the  flame 
gutter  badly  and  a  drop  of  hot  grease  fell  on  my  hand. 
Instinctively  I  jumped  and  shook  my  hand  without 
thinking  what  I  was  doing.  There  was  a  perfect  gale 
of  laughter  from  the  house.  After  that,  I  always  pre- 
tended to  drop  the  grease  on  my  hand,  always  gave  the 
little  jump,  and  always  got  my  laugh. 

As  I  say,  nearly  everybody  liked  that  scene.  I  was 
myself  so  girlish  that  it  never  struck  anybody  as  par- 
ticularly suggestive  or  immodest  until  one  night  an  old 
couple  from  the  country  came  to  see  the  opera  and 
created  a  mild  sensation  by  getting  up  and  going  out 
in  the  middle  of  it.  The  old  man  was  heard  to  say,  as 
he  hustled  his  meek  spouse  up  the  aisle  of  the  opera 
house : 

"Mary,  we  'd  better  get  out  of  this!  It  may  be  all 
right  for  city  folks,  but  it 's  no  place  for  us.  We  may 
be  green;  but,  by  cracky, — we  're  decent!" 


CHAPTER  X 

ANOTHER  SEASON  AND  A  LITTLE  MORE  SUCCESS 

ONE  of  the  pleasant  affairs  that  came  my  way  that 
year  was  Sir  Morton  Peto's  banquet  in  October. 
Sir  Morton  was  a  distinguished  Englishman  who  repre- 
sented big  railway  interests  in  Great  Britain  and  who 
was  then  negotiating  some  new  and  important  railroad- 
ing schemes  on  this  side  of  the  water.  There  were  two 
hundred  and  fifty  guests ;  practically  everybody  present, 
except  my  mother  and  myself,  standing  for  some  large 
financial  power  of  the  United  States.  I  felt  much 
complimented  at  being  invited,  for  it  was  at  a  period 
when  very  great  developments  were  in  the  making. 
America  was  literally  teeming  with  new  projects  and 
plans  and  embryonic  interests. 

The  banquet  was  given  at  Delmonico's,  then  at  Fifth 
Avenue  and  Fourteenth  Street,  and  the  rooms  were 
gorgeous  in  their  drapings  of  American  and  English 
flags.  The  war  was  about  drawing  to  its  close  and 
patriotism  was  at  white  heat.  The  influential  Ameri- 
cans were  in  the  mood  to  wave  their  banners  and  to 
exchange  amenities  with  foreign  potentates.  Sir  Mor- 
ton was  a  noted  capitalist  and  his  banquet  was  a  sort  of 
"hands  across  the  sea"  festival.  He  used,  I  recall,  to 
stop  at  the  Clarendon,  now  torn  down  and  its  site 
occupied  by  a  commercial  "sky  scraper,"  but  then  the 
smart  hostelry  of  the  town. 

99 


loo  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

I  sang  that  night  after  dinner.  My  services  had 
not  been  engaged  professionally,  so,  when  Sir  Morton 
wanted  to  reward  me  lavishly,  I  of  course  did  not  care 
to  have  him  do  so.  We  were  still  so  new  to  prime 
donne  in  New  York  that  we  had  no  social  code  or 
precedent  to  refer  to  with  regard  to  them;  and  I  pre- 
ferred, personally,  to  keep  the  episode  on  a  purely 
friendly  and  social  basis.  I  was  an  invited  guest  only 
who  had  tried  to  do  her  part  for  the  entertainment  of 
the  others.  I  was  honoured,  too.  It  was  an  expe- 
rience to  which  anyone  could  look  back  with  pride 
and  pleasure. 

But,  being  English,  Sir  Morton  Peto  had  a  solution 
and,  within  a  day  or  two,  sent  me  an  exquisite  pearl 
and  diamond  bracelet.  It  is  odd  how  much  more 
delicately  and  graciously  than  Americans  all  foreigners 
— of  whatever  nationality  indeed — can  relieve  a  situa- 
tion of  awkwardness  and  do  the  really  considerate  and 
appreciative  thing  which  makes  such  a  situation  all 
right.  I  later  found  the  same  tactful  qualities  in  the 
Duke  of  Newcastle  who,  with  his  family,  were  among 
the  closest  friends  I  had  in  England.  Indeed,  I  was 
always  much  impressed  with  the  good  taste  of  English 
men  and  women  in  this  connection. 

An  instance  of  the  American  fashion  befell  me  during 
the  winter  of  '63~'64  on  the  occasion  of  a  big  reception 
that  was  given  by  the  father  of  Brander  Matthews. 
I  was  invited  to  go  and  asked  to  sing,  my  host  saying 
that  if  I  would  not  accept  a  stipulated  price  he  would 
be  only  too  glad  to  make  me  a  handsome  present  of 
some  kind.  The  occasion  turned  out  to  be  very  unfor- 
tunate and  unpleasant  altogether,  both  at  the  time  and 
with  regard  to  the  feeling  that  grew  out  of  it.  I  hap- 
pened to  wear  a  dress  that  was  nearly  new,  a  handsome 


A.  Little  More  Success  101 

and  expensive  gown,  and  this  was  completely  ruined 
by  a  servant  upsetting  melted  ice  cream  over  it.  My 
host  and  hostess  were  all  concern,  saying  that,  as  they 
were  about  to  go  to  Paris,  they  would  buy  me  a  new 
one.  I  immediately  felt  that  if  they  did  this,  they 
would  consider  the  dress  as  an  equivalent  for  my  sing- 
ing and  that  I  should  never  hear  anything  more  of  the 
handsome  present.  Of  course  I  said  nothing  of  this, 
however,  to  anyone.  Well — they  went  to  Paris.  Days 
and  weeks  passed.  I  heard  nothing  from  them  about 
either  dress  or  present.  I  went  to  Europe.  They 
called  on  me  in  Paris.  In  the  course  of  time  we  all 
came  home  to  America;  and  the  night  after  my  return 
I  received  a  long  letter  and  a  set  of  Castilian  gold 
jewelry,  altogether  inadequate  as  an  equivalent.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  accept  it,  which  I  did,  and 
then  proceeded  to  give  away  the  ornaments  as  I  saw 
fit.  The  whole  affair  was  uncomfortable  and  a  dis- 
credit to  my  entertainers.  Not  only  had  I  lost  a  rich 
dress  through  the  carelessness  of  one  of  their  servants, 
but  I  received  a  very  tardy  and  inadequate  recompense 
for  my  singing.  I  had  refused  payment  in  money 
because  it  was  the  custom  to  do  so.  But  I  was  a  pro- 
fessional singer,  and  I  had  been  asked  to  the  reception 
as  a  professional  entertainer.  This,  however,  I  must 
add,  is  the  most  flagrant  case  that  has  ever  come  under 
my  personal  notice  of  an  American  host  or  hostess 
failing  to  "make  good "  at  the  expense  of  a  professional. 
Well — from  time  to  time  after  Sir  Morton's  banquet, 
I  sang  in  concert.  On  one  occasion  I  replaced  Euphros- 
yne  Parepa — she  had  not  then  married  Carl  Rosa — 
at  one  of  the  Bateman  concerts.  The  Meyerbeer 
craze  was  then  at  its  height.  Good,  sound  music  it 
was  too,  if  a  little  brazen  and  noisy.  L'Etoile  du  Nord 


102  An  American  Prima  Donna 

(I  don't  understand  why  we  always  speak  of  it  as 
L'Etoile  du  Nord  when  we  never  once  sang  it  in  French) 
had  been  sung  in  America  by  my  old  idol,  Mme.  de 
la  Grange,  nearly  ten  years  before  I  essayed  Catarina. 
My  premiere  in  the  part  was  given  in  Philadelphia ;  but 
almost  immediately  we  came  back  to  New  York  for  the 
spring  opera  season  and  I  sang  The  Star  as  principal 
attraction.  Later  on  I  sang  it  in  Boston. 

It  was  always  good  fun  playing  in  Boston,  for  the 
Harvard  boys  adored  "suping"  and  we  had  our  extra 
men  almost  without  the  asking.  They  were  such  nice, 
clean,  enthusiastic  chaps!  The  reason  why  I  remember 
them  so  clearly  is  that  I  never  can  forget  how  surprised 
I  was  when,  in  the  boat  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  of 
The  Star  of  the  North,  I  chanced  to  look  down  and 
caught  sight  of  Peter  Barlow  (now  Judge  Barlow) 
grinning  up  at  me  from  a  point  almost  underneath  me 
on  the  stage,  and  how  I  nearly  fell  out  of  the  boat ! 

We  had  difficulty  in  finding  a  satisfactory  Pras- 
covia.  Prascovia  is  an  important  soprano  part,  and 
had  to  be  well  taken.  At  last  Albites  suggested  a 
pupil  of  his.  This  was  Minnie  Hauck.  Prascovia 
was  sung  at  our  first  performance  by  Mile.  Bososio  who 
was  not  equal  to  the  part.  Minnie  Hauck  came  into 
the  theatre  and  sang  a  song  of  Meyerbeer's,  and  we 
knew  that  we  had  found  our  Prascovia.  Her  voice 
was  very  light  but  pleasing  and  well-trained,  for  Albites 
was  a  good  teacher.  She  undoubtedly  would  add 
value  to  our  caste.  So  she  made  her  debut  as  Pras- 
covia, although  she  afterwards  became  better  known 
to  the  public  as  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the  early 
Carmens.  Indeed,  many  people  believed  that  she 
created  that  role  in  America  although,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  sang  Carmen  several  months  before  she  did. 


A.  Little  More  Success  103 

As  Prascovia  she  and  I  had  a  duet  together,  very 
long  and  elaborate,  which  we  introduced  after  the  tent 
scene  and  which  made  an  immense  hit.  We  always 
received  many  flowers  after  it — I,  particularly,  to  be 
quite  candid.  By  this  time  I  was  called  The  Flower 
Prima  Donna  because  of  the  quantities  of  wonderful 
blossoms  that  were  sent  to  me  night  after  night. 
When  singing  The  Star  of  the  North  there  was  one 
bouquet  that  I  was  sure  of  getting  regularly  from  a 
young  man  who  always  sent  the  same  kind  of  flowers. 
I  never  needed  a  card  on  them  or  on  the  box  to  know 
from  whom  they  came.  Miss  Hauck  used  to  help  me 
pick  up  my  bouquets.  The  only  trouble  was  that  every 
one  she  picked  up  she  kept !  As  a  rule  I  did  not  object, 
and,  anyway,  I  might  have  had  difficulty  in  proving 
that  she  had  appropriated  my  flowers  after  she  had 
taken  the  cards  off:  but  one  night  she  included  in  her 
general  haul  my  own  special,  unmistakable  bouquet! 
I  recognised  it,  saw  her  take  it,  but,  as  there  was  no 
card,  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  getting  it  away  from 
her.  I  did,  though,  in  the  end. 

Minnie  Hauck  was  very  pushing  and  took  advantage 
of  everything  to  forward  and  help  herself.  She  never 
had  the  least  apprehension  about  the  outcome  of 
anything  in  which  she  was  engaged  and,  in  this,  she 
was  extremely  fortunate,  for  most  persons  cursed  with 
the  artistic  temperament  are  too  sensitive  to  feel 
confident.  She  was  clever,  too.  This  is  another  excep- 
tion, for  very  few  big  singers  are  clever.  I  think  it  is 
Mme.  Maeterlinck  who  has  made  use  of  the  expression 
"too  clever  to  sing  well."  I  am  convinced  that  there 
is  quite  a  truth  in  it  as  well  as  a  sarcasm.  Wonderful 
voices  usually  are  given  to  people  who  are,  intrinsically, 
more  or  less  nonentities.  One  cannot  have  every- 


IO4  .A.n  American  Frima  Donna 

thing  in  this  world,  and  people  with  brains  are  not 
obliged  to  sing!  But  Minnie  Hauck  was  a  singer  and 
she  was  also  clever.  If  I  remember  rightly,  she  mar- 
ried some  scientific  foreign  baron  and  lived  afterwards 
in  Lucerne. 

Once  I  heard  of  a  soldier  who  was  asked  to  describe 
Waterloo  and  who  replied  that  his  whole  impression  of 
the  battle  consisted  of  a  mental  picture  of  the  kind  of 
button  that  was  on  the  coat  of  the  man  in  front  of  him. 
It  is  so  curiously  true  that  one's  view  of  important 
events  is  often  a  very  small  one, — especially  when  it 
comes  to  a  matter  of  mere  memory.  Accordingly,  I 
find  my  amethysts  are  almost  my  most  vivid  recollec- 
tion in  connection  with  UEtoile  du  Nord.  I  wanted  a 
set  of  really  handsome  stage  jewelry  for  Catarina. 
In  fact,  I  had  been  looking  for  such  a  set  for  some 
time.  There  are  many  roles,  Violetta  for  instance, 
for  which  rich  jewels  are  needed.  My  friends  were  on 
the  lookout  for  me,  also,  and  it  was  while  I  was  prepar- 
ing for  The  Star  of  the  North  that  a  man  I  knew  came 
hurrying  in  with  a  wonderful  tale  of  a  set  of  imitation 
amethysts  that  he  had  discovered,  and  that  were,  he 
thought,  precisely  what  I  was  looking  for. 

"The  man  who  has  them,"  he  told  me,  "bought 
them  at  a  bankrupt  sale  for  ninety-six  dollars  and  they 
are  a  regular  white  elephant  to  him.  Of  course,  they 
are  suitable  only  for  the  stage ;  and  he  has  been  hunting 
for  months  for  some  actress  who  would  buy  them. 
You  'd  better  take  a  look  at  them,  anyhow." 

I  had  the  set  sent  to  me  and,  promptly,  went  wild 
over  it.  The  stones,  that  ranged  from  the  size  of  a 
bean  to  that  of  a  large  walnut,  appeared  to  be  as 
perfect  as  genuine  amethysts,  and  the  setting — genuine 
soft,  old,  worked  gold — was  really  exquisite.  There 


.A  Little  More  Success  105 

were  seventy  stones  in  the  whole  set,  which  included  a 
necklace,  a  bracelet,  a  large  brooch,  ear-rings  and  a 
most  gorgeous  tiara.  The  colour  of  the  gems  was  very 
deep  and  lovely,  bordering  on  a  claret  tone  rather  than 
violet.  The  crown  was  apparently  symbolic  or  sug- 
gestive of  some  great  house.  It  was  made  of  roses, 
shamrocks,  and  thistles,  and  every  piece  in  the  set  was 
engraved  with  a  small  hare's  head.  I  wish  I  knew 
heraldry  and  could  tell  to  whom  the  lovely  ornaments 
had  first  belonged.  Of  course  I  bought  them,  paying 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  for  the  set,  which  the 
man  was  glad  enough  to  get.  I  wore  it  in  The  Star 
and  in  other  operas,  and  one  day  I  took  it  down  to 
Tiffany's  to  have  it  cleaned  and  repaired. 

The  man  there,  who  knew  me,  examined  it  with 
interest. 

"  It  will  cost  you  one  hundred  and  seventy  dollars, " 
he  informed  me. 

"What!"  I  gasped.  "That  is  more  than  the  whole 
set  is  worth!" 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  thought  I  must  be  a  little 
crazy. 

"Miss  Kellogg,"  he  said,  "if  you  think  that,  I  don't 
believe  you  know  what  you  Ve  really  got.  What  do 
you  think  this  jewelry  is  really  worth?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  admitted.  "What  do  you  think 
it  is  worth?" 

"Roughly  speaking, "  he  replied,  " I  should  say  about 
six  thousand  dollars.  The  workmanship  is  of  great 
value,  and  every  one  of  the  stones  is  genuine. " 

Through  all  these  years,  therefore,  I  have  been 
fearful  that  some  Rip  Van  Winkle  claimant  might 
rise  up  and  take  my  beloved  amethysts  away  from  me ! 

My  general  impressions  of  this  period  of  my  life 


Io6  A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

include  those  of  the  two  great  pianists,  Thalberg  and 
Gottschalk.  They  were  both  wonderful,  although  I 
always  admired  Gottschalk  more  than  the  former. 
Thalberg  had  the  greater  technique;  Gottschalk  the 
greater  charm.  Sympathetically,  the  latter  musician 
was  better  equipped  than  the  former.  The  very 
simplest  thing  that  Gottschalk  played  became  full  of 
fascination.  Thalberg  was  marvellously  perfect  as  to 
his  method;  but  it  was  Gottschalk  who  could  "play 
the  birds  off  the  trees  and  the  heart  out  of  your 
breast, "  as  the  Irish  say.  Thalberg's  work  was,  if  I 
may  put  it  so,  mental ;  Gottschalk's  was  temperamental. 
Gottschalk  was  one  of  the  first  big  pianists  to  come 
to  New  York  touring.  He  was  from  New  Orleans, 
having  been  born  there  in  the  French  Quarter,  and 
spoke  only  French,  like  so  many  persons  from  that 
city  up  to  thirty  years  ago.  But  he  had  been  educated 
abroad  and  always  ranked  as  a  foreign  artist.  He 
must  have  been  a  Jew,  from  his  name.  Certainly,  he 
looked  like  one.  He  had  peculiarly  drooping  eyelids 
and  was  considered  to  be  very  attractive.  He  wrote 
enchanting  Spanish-sounding  songs;  and  gave  the  banjo 
quite  a  little  dignity  by  writing  a  piece  imitating  it, 
much  to  my  delight,  because  of  my  fondness  for  that 
instrument.  He  was  in  no  way  a  classical  pianist. 
Thalberg  was.  Indeed,  they  were  altogether  different 
types.  Thalberg  was  nothing  like  so  interesting  either 
as  a  personality  or  as  a  musician,  although  he  was 
much  more  scholarly  than  his  predecessor.  I  say  pre- 
decessor, because  Thalberg  followed  Gottschalk  in  the 
touring  proposition.  Gottschalk  began  his  work  before 
I  began  mine,  and  I  first  sang  with  him  in  my  second 
season.  He  and  I  figured  in  the  same  concerts  not 
only  in  those  early  days  but  also  much  later. 


Gottschalk 

Photograph  by  Case  &  Getchell 


j\  Little  More  Success  107 

Gottschalk  was  a  gay  deceiver  and  women  were 
crazy  about  him.  Needless  to  say,  my  mother  never 
let  me  have  anything  to  do  with  him  except  profession- 
ally. He  was  pursued  by  adoring  females  wherever 
he  went  and  inundated  with  letters  from  girls  who  had 
lost  their  hearts  to  his  exquisite  music  and  magnetic 
personality.  I  shall  always  remember  Gottschalk  and 
Brignoli  comparing  their  latest  love  letters  from  mati- 
nee girls.  Some  poor,  silly  maiden  had  written  to 
Gottschalk  asking  for  a  meeting  at  any  place  he  would 
appoint.  Said  Gottschalk: 

"It  would  be  rather  fun  to  make  a  date  with  her  at 
some  absurd,  impossible  place, — say  a  ferry-boat,  for 
instance." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Brignoli,  "a  ferry-boat  is  not 
romantic  enough.  She  would  n't  think  of  coming  to  a 
ferry-boat  to  meet  her  ideal!" 

"She  would  come  anywhere,"  declared  Gottschalk, 
not  at  all  vaingloriously,  but  as  one  stating  a  simple 
truth.  "I  '11  make  her  come;  and  you  shall  come  too 
and  see  her  do  it!" 

"Will  you  bet?"  asked  Brignoli. 

"I  certainly  will,"  replied  Gottschalk. 

They  promptly  put  up  quite  a  large  sum  of  money 
and  Gottschalk  won.  That  dear,  miserable  goose  of  a 
girl  did  go  to  the  ferry-boat  to  meet  the  illustrious 
pianist  of  her  adoration,  and  Brignoli  was  there  to  see. 
If  only  girls  knew  as  much  as  I  do  about  the  way  in 
which  their  stage  heroes  take  their  innocent  adulation, 
and  the  wicked  light-heartedness  with  which  they  make 
fun  of  it !  But  they  do  not ;  and  the  only  way  to  teach 
them,  I  suppose,  is  to  let  them  learn  by  themselves, 
poor  little  idiots. 

As  I  look  back  I  feel  a  continual  sense  of  outrage 


io8  -A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

that  I  mixed  so  little  with  the  people  and  affairs  that 
were  all  about  me;  interesting  people  and  important 
affairs.  My  dear  mother  adored  me.  It  is  strange 
that  we  can  never  even  be  adored  in  the  particular 
fashion  in  which  we  would  prefer  to  be  adored!  My 
mother's  way  was  to  guard  me  eternally;  she  would 
have  called  it  protecting  me.  But,  really,  it  was  a  good 
deal  like  shutting  me  up  in  a  glass  case,  and  it  was  a 
great  pity.  My  mother  was  an  extraordinarily  fine 
woman,  upright  as  the  day  and  of  an  unusual  mentality. 
Uncompromising  she  was,  not  unnaturally,  according 
to  her  heritage  of  race  and  creed  and  generation.  Yet 
I  sometimes  question  if  she  were  as  uncompromising 
as  she  used  to  seem  to  me,  for  was  not  the  life  she  led 
with  me,  as  well  as  her  acceptance  of  it  in  the  beginning, 
one  long  compromise  between  her  nature  and  the 
actualities?  At  any  rate,  where  she  seemed  to  draw 
the  line  was  in  keeping  me  as  much  as  possible  aloof 
from  my  inevitable  associates.  I  led  a  deadly  dull 
and  virtuous  life,  of  necessity.  To  be  sure,  I  might 
have  been  just  as  virtuous  or  even  more  so  had  I  been 
left  to  my  own  devices  and  judgments;  but  I  contend 
that  such  a  life  is  not  up  to  much  when  it  is  compulsory. 
Personal  responsibility  is  necessary  to  development. 
Perhaps  I  reaped  certain  benefits  from  my  mother's 
close  chaperonage.  Certainly,  if  there  were  benefits 
about  it,  I  reaped  them.  But  I  very  much  question 
its  ultimate  advantage  to  me,  and  I  confess  freely 
that  one  of  the  things  I  most  regret  is  the  innocent, 
normal  coquetry  which  is  the  birthright  of  every  happy 
girl  and  which  I  entirely  missed.  It  is  all  very  well  to 
be  carefully  guarded  and  to  be  made  the  archetype  of 
American  virtue  on  the  stage,  but  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  entirely  innocuous  amusement  that  I  might  have 


Jane  Elizabeth  Crosby 

Mother  of  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 
From  a  tintype 


.A  Little  More  Success  109 

had  and  did  not  have,  which  I  should  have  been  bet- 
ter off  for  having.  My  mother  could  hardly  let  me 
hold  a  friendly  conversation  with  a  man — much  less  a 
flirtation. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  END  OF  THE  WAR 

THE  Civil  War  was  now  coming  to  its  close.  Abra- 
ham Lincoln  was  the  hero  of  the  day,  as  he  has 
been  of  all  days  since,  in  America.  The  White  House 
was  besieged  with  people  from  all  walks  of  life,  persis- 
tently anxious  to  shake  hands  with  the  War  President, 
and  he  used  to  have  to  stand,  for  incredible  lengths  of 
time,  smiling  and  hand-clasping.  But  he  was  ever  a 
fine  economist  of  energy  and  he  flatly  refused  to  talk. 
No  one  could  get  out  of  him  more  than  a  smile,  a  nod, 
or  possibly  a  brief  word  of  greeting. 

One  man  made  a  bet  that  he  would  have  some  sort  of 
conversation  with  the  President  while  he  was  shaking 
hands  with  him. 

/'No,  you  won't,"  said  the  man  to  whom  he  was 
speaking,  "I  '11  bet  you  that  you  won't  get  more  than 
two  words  out  of  him!" 

"I  bet  I  will,"  said  the  venturesome  one;  and  he 
set  off  to  try  his  luck. 

He  went  to  the  White  House  reception  and,  when 
his  turn  came  and  his  hand  was  in  the  huge  presidential 
grasp,  he  began  to  talk  hastily  and  volubly,  hoping  to 
elicit  some  response.  Lincoln  listened  a  second,  gazing 
at  him  gravely  with  his  deep-set  eyes,  and  then  he  laid 
an  enormous  hand  in  a  loose,  wrinkled  white  glove 
across  his  back. 

no 


The  End  of  tKe  War  in 

"Don't  dwell!"  said  he  gently  to  his  caller;  and 
shoved  him  along,  amiably  but  relentlessly,  with  the 
rest  of  the  line.  So  the  man  got  only  his  two  words 
after  all. 

One  week  before  the  President  was  murdered  I  was 
in  Washington  and  sat  in  the  exact  place  in  which  he 
sat  when  he  was  shot.  It  was  the  same  box,  the  same 
chair,  and  on  Friday  too, — one  week  to  the  day  and 
hour  before  the  tragedy.  When  I  heard  the  terrible 
news  I  was  able  to  picture  exactly  what  it  had  been 
like.  I  could  see  just  the  jump  that  Booth  must  have 
had  to  make  to  get  away.  I  never  knew  Wilkes  Booth 
personally  nor  saw  him  act,  but  I  have  several  times 
seen  him  leaving  his  theatre  after  a  performance,  with 
a  raft  of  adoring  matinee  girls  forming  a  more  or  less 
surreptitous  guard  afar  off.  He  was  a  tremendously 
popular  idol  and  strikingly  handsome.  Even  after  his 
wicked  crime  there  were  many  women  who  professed  a 
sort  of  hysterical  sympathy  and  pity  for  him.  Some- 
body has  said  that  there  would  always  be  at  least  one 
woman  at  the  death-bed  of  the  worst  criminal  in  the 
world  if  she  could  get  to  it ;  and  there  were  hundreds  of 
the  sex  who  would  have  been  charmed  to  watch  beside 
Booth's,  bad  as  he  was  and  crazy  into  the  bargain. 
It  is  a  mysterious  thing,  the  fascination  that  criminals 
have  for  some  people,  particularly  women.  Perhaps 
it  is  fundamentally  a  respect  for  accomplishment; 
admiration  for  the  doing  of  something,  good  or  evil, 
that  they  would  not  dare  to  do  themselves. 

We  had  all  gone  to  Chicago  for  our  spring  opera 
season  and  were  ready  to  open,  when  the  tragic  tidings 
came  and  shut  down  summarily  upon  every  prepara- 
tion for  amusement  of  any  kind.  Every  city  in  the 
Union  went  into  mourning  for  the  man  whom  the 


1 12  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

country  idolised ;  of  whom  so  many  people  spoke  as  our 
"Abraham  Lincoln."  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  this 
universal  and  almost  personal  affection  that  the  authori- 
ties did  such  an  odd  thing — or,  at  least,  it  struck  me  as 
odd, — with  his  body.  He  was  taken  all  over  the 
country  and  "lay-in-state,"  as  it  is  called,  in  different 
court  houses  in  different  states. 

I  was  stopping  in  the  Grand  Pacific  Hotel  when  the 
body  was  brought  to  Chicago,  and  my  windows  over- 
looked the  grounds  of  the  Court  House  of  that  city. 
Business  was  entirely  suspended,  not  simply  for  a  few 
memorial  moments  as  was  the  case  when  President 
McKinley  was  killed,  but  for  many  hours  during  the 
"lying-in-state."  This,  however,  was  probably  only 
partly  official.  Everyone  was  so  afraid  that  he  would 
not  be  able  to  see  the  dead  hero's  face  that  business 
men  all  over  the  town  suspended  occupation,  closed 
shops  and  offices,  and  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Court 
House.  All  citizens  were  permitted  to  go  into  the 
building  and  look  upon  the  Martyr  President,  and 
vast  numbers  availed  themselves  of  the  privilege — 
waited  all  night,  indeed,  to  claim  it.  From  sunset  to 
sunrise  the  grounds  were  packed  with  a  silent  multi- 
tude. The  only  sound  to  be  heard  was  the  shuffling 
echo  of  feet  as  one  person  after  another  went  quietly 
into  the  Court  House,  shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle, — I  can 
hear  it  yet.  There  was  not  a  word  uttered.  There 
was  no  other  sound  than  the  sound  of  the  passing  feet. 
One  thing  that  must  have  been  official  was  that,  for 
quite  a  long  time,  not  a  wheel  in  the  city  was  allowed 
to  turn.  This  was  an  impressive  tribute  to  a  man 
whom  the  whole  American  nation  loved  and  counted  a 
friend. 

The  only  diversion  in  the  whole  melancholy  solem- 


The  End  of  tHe  War  113 

nity  of  it  all  was  the  picking  of  pockets.  The  crowds 
were  enormous,  the  people  in  a  mood  of  sentiment  and 
off  their  guard,  and  the  army  of  crooks  did  a  thriving 
business.  It  is  a  sickening  thing  to  realise  that  in  all 
hours  of  great  national  tragedy  or  terror  there  will 
always  be  people  degenerate  enough  to  take  advantage 
of  the  suffering  and  ruin  about  them.  Burning  or 
plague-stricken  cities  have  to  be  put  under  military 
law;  and  it  is  said  that  to  the  multiplied  horrors  of  the 
San  Francisco  earthquake  the  people  look  back  with 
a  shudder  to  the  ghastly  system  of  looting  which 
prevailed  afterwards  in  the  stricken  city. 

Every  imaginable  kind  of  flowers  were  sent  to  the 
dead  President,  splendid  wreaths  and  bouquets  from 
distinguished  personages,  and  many  little  cheap  humble 
nosegays  from  poor  people  who  had  loved  him  even 
from  afar  and  wanted  to  honour  him  in  some  simple 
way.  No  man  has  ever  been  loved  more  in  his  death 
than  was  Abraham  Lincoln. 

I  sent  a  cross  of  white  camellias.  I  do  not  like 
camellias  when  they  are  sent  to  me,  because  they  always 
seem  such  heartless,  soulless  flowers  for  living  people 
to  wear.  But  just  for  that  reason,  just  because  they 
are  the  most  perfect  and  the  most  impersonal  of  all 
flowers  that  grow  and  blossom  they  seem  right  and 
suitable  for  death.  Ever  since  that  time  I  have  asso- 
ciated white  camellias  with  the  thought  of  Abraham 
Lincoln  and  with  my  strange,  impressive  memory  of 
those  days  in  Chicago. 

However,  nations  go  on  even  after  the  beloved 
rulers  of  them  are  laid  in  the  ground.  Our  Chicago 
season  opened  soon — I  in  Lucia — and  everything  went 
along  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  The  only 
difference  was  that  the  end  of  the  war  had  made 


H4  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

the  nation  a  little  drunk  with  excitement  and  our 
performances  went  with  a  whirl. 

Finally  the  victorious  generals,  Lieutenant-General 
Grant  and  Major-General  Sherman,  came  to  Chicago 
as  the  guests  of  the  city  and  we  gave  a  gala  performance 
for  them.  As  the  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  had  been 
our  choice  to  inaugurate  the  commencement  of  the 
great  conflict,  so  the  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  was  also 
our  choice  to  commemorate  its  close.  The  whole  opera 
house  was  gay  with  flags  and  flowers  and  decorations, 
and  the  generals  were  given  the  two  stage  boxes,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  house.  The  audience  began  to 
come  in  very  early;  and  it  was  a  huge  one.  The 
curtain  had  not  yet  risen — indeed,  I  was  in  my  dressing- 
room  still  making-up — when  I  heard  the  orchestra 
break  into  See  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes,  and  then 
the  roof  nearly  came  off  with  the  uproar  of  the  people 
cheering.  I  sent  to  find  out  what  was  happening, 
and  was  told  that  General  Grant  had  just  entered  his 
box.  We  were  ridiculously  excited  behind  the  scenes, 
all  of  us;  even  the  foreigners.  They  were  such  emo- 
tional creatures  that  they  flung  themselves  into  a 
mood  of  general  excitement  even  when  it  was  based 
on  a  patriotism  to  which  they  were  aliens.  The  wild 
and  jubilant  state  of  the  audience  infected  us.  I  had 
felt  something  of  the  same  emotion  in  Washington 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  when  we  had  done  Figlia 
before,  to  the  frantically  enthusiastic  houses  there. 
Yet  that  was  different.  Mingled  with  that  feeling 
there  had  been  a  grimness  and  pain  and  apprehen- 
sion. Now  everyone  was  triumphant  and  happy  and 
emotionally  exultant. 

General  Sherman  came  into  his  box  early  in  the 
first  act  and  the  orchestra  had  to  stop  while  the  house 


TKe  End  of  the  War  115 

cheered  him,  and  cheered  again.  Sherman  was  always 
just  a  bit  theatrical  and  loved  applause,  and  he,  with 
his  staff,  stood  bowing  and  smiling  and  bowing  and 
smiling.  The  whole  proceeding  took  almost  the  form 
of  a  great  military  reception.  As  I  look  back  at  it,  I 
think  one  of  the  moments  of  the  evening  was  created 
by  our  basso,  Susini.  Susini — himself  a  soldier  of 
courage  and  experience,  a  veteran  of  the  Italian 
rebellion — made  his  entrance,  walked  forward,  stood, 
faced  one  General  after  the  other  and  saluted  each 
with  the  most  military  exactness.  They  were 
both  plainly  delighted ;  while  the  house,  in  the  mood 
to  be  moved  by  little  touches,  broke  into  the  heartiest 
applause. 

I  had  a  moment  of  triumph  also  when  we  sang  the 
Rataplan,  rataplan.  Since  the  early  hit  I  had  made 
with  my  drum  I  always  played  it  as  the  Daughter  of 
the  Regiment,  and  when  we  came  to  this  scene  I  directed 
the  drum  first  toward  one  box  and  then  toward  the 
other,  as  I  gave  the  rolling  salute.  The  audience  went 
mad  again;  and  again  the  orchestra  had  to  stop  until 
the  clapping  and  the  hurrahs  had  subsided.  It  may 
not  have  been  a  great  operatic  performance  but  it  was 
a  great  evening!  Such  moments  written  about  after- 
wards in  cold  words  lose  their  thrill.  They  bring  up 
no  pictures  except  to  those  who  have  lived  them. 
But  on  a  night  such  as  that,  one's  heart  seems  like  a 
musical  instrument,  wonderfully  played  upon. 

Between  the  acts  the  two  distinguished  officers 
came  behind  the  scenes  and  were  introduced  to  the 
artists,  making  pleasant  speeches  to  us  all.  Immedi- 
ately, I  liked  best  the  personality  of  General  Grant. 
There  was  nothing  the  least  spectacular  or  egotistical 
about  him;  he  was  absolutely  simple  and  quiet  and 


u6  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

unaffected.  He  bewildered  me  by  apologising  cour- 
teously for  not  being  able  to  shake  hands  with  me. 

"You  have  had  an  accident  to  your  hand!"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"Not  exactly  an  accident,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I 
think  I  may  call  it  design!" 

He  explained  that  he  had  shaken  hands  with  so 
many  people  that  he  could  not  use  his  right  hand  for 
a  while.  He  held  it  out  for  me  to  see  and,  sure  enough, 
it  was  terribly  swollen  and  inflamed  and  must  have 
been  very  painful. 

The  great  evening  came  to  an  end  at  last.  We  were 
not  sorry  on  the  whole  for,  thrilling  as  it  had  been,  it 
had  been  also  very  tiring.  I  wonder  if  such  mad, 
national  excitement  could  come  to  people  to-day?  I 
cannot  quite  imagine  an  opera  performance  being 
conducted  on  similar  lines  in  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House.  Perhaps,  however,  it  is  not  because  we  are 
less  enthusiastic  but  because  our  events  are  less 
dramatic. 

In  recalling  General  Sherman  I  find  myself  thinking 
of  him  chiefly  in  the  later  years  of  my  acquaintance 
with  him.  After  that  Chicago  night,  he  never  failed 
to  look  me  up  when  I  sang  in  any  city  where  he  was 
and  we  grew  to  be  good  friends.  He  was  always  quite 
enthusiastic  about  operatic  music;  much  more  so  than 
General  Grant.  He  confided  to  me  once  that  above 
all  songs  he  especially  disliked  Marching  through 
Georgia,  and  that,  naturally,  was  the  song  he  was  con- 
stantly obliged  to  listen  to.  People,  of  course,  thought 
it  must  be,  or  ought  to  be,  his  favourite  melody.  But 
he  hated  the  tune  as  well  as  the  words.  He  was 
desperately  tired  of  the  song  and,  above  all,  he  detested 
what  it  stood  for,  and  what  it  forced  him  to  recall. 


General  William  Tecumseh  Sherman,  1877 

From  a  photograph  by  Mora 


The  End  of  the  War  117 

Like  nearly  all  great  soldiers,  Sherman  was  naturally 
a  gentle  person  and  saddened  by  war.  Everything 
connected  with  fighting  brought  to  him  chiefly  the 
recollection  of  its  horrors  and  tragedies  and  always 
filled  him  with  pain.  So  it  was  that  his  real  heart's 
preference  was  for  such  simple,  old-fashioned,  planta- 
tion-evoking, country-smelling  airs  as  The  Little  Old 
Log  Cabin  in  the  Lane.  One  day  during  his  many 
visits  to  our  home  he  asked  me  to  sing  this  and,  when 
I  informed  him  that  I  could  not  because  I  did  not  know 
and  did  not  have  the  words,  he  said  he  would  send 
them  to  me.  This  he  did;  and  I  took  pains  after  that 
never  to  forget  his  preference. 


In     de    lit  -  tie    old    log  cab  -  in     in     de  lane. 

One  night  when  I  was  singing  in  a  concert  in  Wash- 
ington, I  caught  sight  of  him  sitting  quietly  in  the 
audience.  He  did  not  even  know  that  I  had  seen  him. 
Presently  the  audience  wanted  an  encore  and,  as  was 
my  custom  in  concerts,  I  went  to  the  piano  to  play  my 
own  accompaniment.  I  turned  and,  meeting  the 
General's  eyes,  smiled  at  him.  Then  I  sang  his 
beloved  Little  Old  Log  Cabin.  My  reward  was  his 
beaming  expression  of  appreciation.  He  was  easily 
touched  by  such  little  personal  tributes. 

"Why  on  earth  did  you  sing  that  queer  old  song, 
Louise, "  someone  asked  me  when  I  was  back  behind 
the  scenes  again. 

"It  was  an  official  request,"  I  replied  mysteriously. 

The  end  of  the  war  was  a  strenuous  time  for  the 


Ii8  A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

nation;  and  for  actors  and  singers  among  others.  The 
combination  of  work  and  excitement  sent  me  up  to 
New  Hartford  in  sore  need  of  my  summer's  rest.  But 
I  think,  of  all  the  many  diverse  impressions  which  that 
spring  made  upon  my  memory,  the  one  that  I  still 
carry  with  me  most  unforgetably,  is  a  sound: — the 
sound  of  those  shuffling  feet,  shuffle,  shuffle,  shuffle,— 
in  the  Court  House  grounds  in  Chicago:  a  sound  like 
a  great  sea  or  forest  in  a  wind  as  the  people  of  the 
nation  went  in  to  look  at  their  President  whom  they 
loved  and  who  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AND  SO — TO  ENGLAND ! 

THE  following  season  was  one  of  concerts  and  not 
remarkably  enjoyable.     In  retrospect  I  see  but  a 
hurried  jumble  of  work  until  our  decision,  in  the  spring, 
to  go  to  England. 

For  two  or  three  years  I  had  wanted  to  try  my  wings 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world.  Several  matters  had 
interfered  and  made  it  temporarily  impossible,  chiefly 
an  unfortunate  business  agreement  into  which  I  had 
entered  at  the  very  outset  of  my  professional  career. 
During  the  second  season  that  I  sang,  an  impresario,  a 
Jew  named  Ulman,  had  made  me  an  offer  to  go  abroad 
and  sing  in  Paris  and  elsewhere.  Being  very  eager  to 
forge  ahead,  it  seemed  like  a  satisfactory  arrangement, 
and  I  signed  a  contract  binding  myself  to  sing  under 
Ulman's  management  if  I  went  abroad  any  time  in 
three  years.  When  I  came  to  think  it  over,  I  regretted 
this  arrangement  exceedingly.  I  felt  that  the  impre- 
sario was  not  the  best  one  for  me.  To  say  the  least, 
I  came  to  doubt  his  ability.  At  any  rate,  because  of 
this  complication,  I  voluntarily  tied  myself  up  to  Max 
Maretzek  for  several  years  and  felt  it  a  release  as  now 
I  could  not  tour  under  Ulman  even  if  I  cared  to.  By 
1867,  however,  my  Ulman  contract  had  expired  and  I 
was  free  to  do  as  I  pleased.  I  had  no  contract  abroad 
to  be  sure,  nor  any  very  definite  prospects,  but  I  deter- 

119 


I2O  A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

mined  to  go  to  England  on  a  chance  and  see  what 
developed.  At  any  rate  I  should  have  the  advantage 
of  being  able  to  consult  foreign  teachers  and  to  improve 
my  method.  The  uncertainties  of  my  professional 
outlook  did  not  disturb  me  in  the  least.  Indeed,  what 
I  really  wanted  was,  like  any  other  girl,  to  go  abroad, 
as  the  gentleman  in  the  old-fashioned  ballad  says : 

...  to  go  abroad; 

To  go  strange  countries  for  to  see! 

I  greatly  enjoyed  the  voyage  as  I  have  enjoyed  every 
voyage  that  I  have  made  since,  even  including  the 
channel  crossing  when  everyone  else  on  board  was 
seasick,  and  also  the  one  in  which  I  was  nearly  ship- 
wrecked off  the  Irish  coast.  I  have  crossed  the  Atlantic 
between  sixty  and  seventy  times  and  every  trip  has 
given  me  pleasure  of  one  kind  or  another.  I  am  never 
nervous  when  travelling.  Like  poor  Jack,  I  have  a 
vague  but  sure  conviction  that  nothing  will  happen 
to  me;  that  I  am  protected  by  "a  sweet  little  cherub 
that  sits  up  aloft!" 

At  Queenstown,  where  we  touched  before  going  on  to 
our  regular  port  of  Liverpool,  a  man  came  on  board 
asking  for  Miss  Clara  Louise  Kellogg.  He  was  from 
Jarrett,  the  agent  for  Colonel  Mapleson  who  was  then 
impresario  of  "Her  Majesty's  Opera"  in  London,  and 
he  brought  me  word  that  Mapleson  wanted  me  to  call 
on  him  as  soon  as  I  reached  London  and,  until  we  could 
definitely  arrange  matters,  to  please  give  him  the  refusal 
of  myself,  if  I  may  so  express  it.  Perhaps  I  was  n't  a 
proud  and  happy  girl!  Mapleson,  I  heard  later,  was 
then  believed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  failure  and  it  was 
hoped  that  my  appearance  in  his  company  would 
revive  his  fortunes.  I  grew  afterwards  cordially  to 


And  So — To  England  121 

detest  and  to  distrust  him,  and  we  had  more  troubles 
than  I  can  or  care  to  keep  track  of:  and,  as  for  Jarrett, 
he  was  a  most  unpleasant  creature  with  a  positive 
genius  for  making  trouble.  But  on  that  day  in  Queens- 
town  harbour,  with  the  sun  shining  and  the  little 
Irish  fisher  boats — their  patched  sails  streaming  into 
the  blue  off-shore  distance, — the  man  Jarrett  had  sent 
to  meet  me  on  behalf  of  Colonel  Mapleson  seemed  like 
a  herald  of  great  good  cheer. 

When  we  reached  London  we  went  to  Miss  Edward's 
Hotel  in  Hanover  Square.  It  was  a  curious  institution, 
distinctive  of  its  day  and  generation,  a  real  old-fash- 
ioned English  hotel,  behind  streets  that  were  "chained- 
up"  after  nightfall.  It  was  called  a  "private  hotel" 
and  unquestionably  was  one;  deadly  dull,  but  main- 
tained in  the  most  aristocratic  way  imaginable,  like  a 
formal,  pluperfect,  private  house  where  one  might 
chance  to  be  invited  to  visit.  Everyone  dined  in  his 
own  sitting-room,  which  was  usually  separated  from 
the  bedroom,  and  never  a  soul  but  the  servants  was 
seen.  The  Langham  was  the  first  London  hotel  to 
introduce  the  American  style  of  hotel  and  it,  with  its 
successors,  have  had  such  an  influence  upon  the  other 
hostelries  of  London  as  gradually  to  undermine  the 
quaint,  old,  truly  English  places  we  used  to  know,  until 
there  are  no  more  "private  hotels"  like  Miss  Edward's 
in  existence. 

We  had  friends  in  London  and  quickly  made  others. 
Commodore  McVickar,  of  the  New  York  Yacht  Club, 
had  given  me  a  letter  to  a  friend  of  his,  the  Dowager 
Duchess  of  Somerset.  Her  cards,  by  the  way,  were 
engraved  in  just  the  opposite  fashion — "Duchess  Dow- 
ager." McVickar  told  me  that,  if  she  liked,  she 
could  make  things  very  pleasant  for  me  in  London. 


122  An  American  Prima  Donna 

It  appeared  that  she  was  something  of  a  lion  hunter 
and  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  celebrities  either 
arriving  or  arrived.  She  went  in  for  everything 
foreign  to  her  own  immediate  circle — art,  intellect,  and 
Americans — chiefly  Americans,  in  fact,  because  they 
were  more  or  less  of  a  novelty,  and  she  had  the  thirst 
for  change  in  her  so  strongly  developed  that  she  ought 
to  have  lived  at  the  present  time.  Every  night  of  her 
life  she  gave  dinners  to  hosts  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances. Indeed,  it  is  a  fact  that  her  sole  interest  in 
life  consisted  of  giving  dinner  parties  and  making 
collections  of  lions,  great  and  small.  I  have  been  told 
that  after  dinner  she  sometimes  danced  the  Spanish 
fandango  toward  the  end  of  the  evening.  I  never 
happened  to  see  her  do  it,  but  I  quite  believe  her  to 
have  been  capable  of  that  or  of  anything  else  vivacious 
and  eccentric,  although  she  was  seventy  or  eighty  in 
the  shade  and  not  entirely  built  for  dancing. 

I  was  somewhat  impressed  by  the  prospect  of  meet- 
ing a  real  live  Duchess,  and  had  to  be  coached  before- 
hand. In  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth  century 
the  mode  of  address  "Your  Grace"  was  used  exclu- 
sively, and  very  pretty  and  courtly  it  must  have 
sounded.  Nowadays  it  is  only  servants  or  inferiors 
who  think  of  using  it.  Plain  "Duke"  or  "Duchess" 
is  the  later  form.  At  the  period  of  which  I  am  writing 
the  custom  was  just  betwixt  and  between,  in  transition, 
and  I  was  duly  instructed  to  say  "Your  Grace,"  but 
cautioned  to  say  it  very  seldom ! 

On  the  nineteenth  of  November,  Colonel  Stebbins 
and  I  went  to  call.  Maria,  Dowager  Duchess  of 
Somerset  lived  in  Park  Lane  in  a  house  of  indifferent 
aspect.  Its  distinctive  feature  was  the  formidable 
number  of  flunkeys  ranged  on  the  steps  and  standing 


Henry  G.  Stebbins 

From  a  photograph  by  Grillet  &  Co. 


And   So— To   England  123 

in  front,  all  in  powdered  wigs  and  white  silk  stockings 
and  wearing  waistcoats  of  a  shade  carrying  out  the 
dominant  colour  of  the  ducal  coat  of  arms.  It  was 
raining  hard  when  we  got  there,  but  not  one  of  these 
gorgeous  functionaries  would  demean  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  carry  an  umbrella  down  to  our  carriage.  In 
the  drawing-room  we  had  to  wait  a  long  time  before  a 
sort  of  gilt-edged  Groom  of  the  Chambers  came  to 
the  door  and  announced, 

"Her  Grace,  the  Duchess!" 

My  youthful  American  soul  was  prepared  for  some- 
one quite  dazzling,  a  magnificent  presence.  What  is 
the  use  of  diadems  and  coronets  if  the  owner  does  not 
wear  them?  Of  course  I  knew,  theoretically,  that 
duchesses  did  not  wear  their  coronets  in  the  middle  of 
the  day,  but  I  did  nevertheless  hope  for  something 
brilliant  or  impressive. 

Then  in  walked  Maria,  Dowager  Duchess  of  Somer- 
set. I  cannot  adequately  describe  her.  She  was  a 
little,  dumpy,  old  woman  with  no  corsets,  and  dressed 
in  a  black  alpaca  gown  and  prunella  shoes — those 
awful  things  that  the  present  generation  are  lucky 
enough  never  to  have  even  seen.  She  furthermore 
wore  a  fichu  of  a  style  which  had  been  entirely  extinct 
for  fifty  years  at  least.  I  really  do  not  know  how 
there  happened  to  be  anyone  living  even  then  who  could 
or  would  make  such  things  for  her.  No  modern 
modiste  could  have  achieved  them  and  survived.  Her 
whole  appearance  was  certainly  beyond  words.  But 
she  had  very  beautiful  hands,  and  when  she  spoke, 
the  great  lady  was  heard  instantly.  It  was  all  there, 
of  course,  only  curiously  costumed,  not  to  say  disguised. 

After  Colonel  Stebbins  had  presented  me  and  she 
had  greeted  me  kindly,  he  said : 


124  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

"  I  am  sure  Miss  Kellogg  will  be  glad  to  sing  for  you. " 

"O, "  said  Her  Grace,  carelessly,  "I  haven't  a 
piano.  I  don't  play  or  sing  and  so  I  don't  need  one. 
But  I  '11  get  one  in. " 

I  was  amazed  at  the  idea  of  a  Duchess  not  owning  a 
piano  and  having  to  hire  one  when,  in  America,  most 
middle-class  homes  possess  one  at  whatever  sacrifice, 
and  every  little  girl  is  expected  to  take  music  lessons 
whether  she  has  any  ability  or  not.  Even  yet  I  do  not 
quite  understand  how  she  managed  without  a  piano 
for  her  musical  lions  to  play  on. 

She  did  get  one  in  without  delay  and  I  was  speedily 
invited  to  come  and  sing.  I  thought  I  would  pay  a 
particular  compliment  to  my  English  hostess  on  that 
occasion  by  choosing  a  song  the  words  of  which  were 
written  by  England's  Poet  Laureate,  so  I  provided 
myself  with  the  lovely  setting  of  Tears,  Idle  Tears; 
music  written  by  an  American,  W.  H.  Cook  by  name, 
who  besides  being  a  composer  of  music  possessed  a 
charming  tenor  voice.  In  my  innocence  I  thought 
this  choice  would  make  a  hit.  Imagine  my  surprise 
therefore  when  my  hostess's  comment  on  the  text  was : 

"Very  pretty  words.     Who  wrote  them?" 

"Why,"  I  stammered,  "Tennyson." 

"Indeed?  And,  my  dear  Miss  Kellogg,  who  was 
Tennyson?" 

Almost  immediately  after  Colonel  Stebbins  bought 
her  a  handsome  set  of  the  Poet  Laureate's  works  with 
which  she  expressed  herself  as  hugely  pleased,  although 
I  am  personally  doubtful  if  she  ever  opened  a  single 
volume. 

She  did  not  forget  the  Tears,  Idle  Tears  episode, 
however,  and  had  the  wit  and  good  humour  often  to 
refer  to  it  afterwards  and,  usually,  quite  aptly.  One 


And  So— To  England  125 

of  her  most  charming  notes  to  me  touches  on  it  grace- 
fully. She  was  a  great  letter- writer  and  her  epistles, 
couched  in  flowery  terms  and  embellished  with  huge 
capitals  of  the  olden  style,  are  treasures  in  their  way: 

"...  I  know  all  I  feel;  and  the  Tears  (not  idle 
Tears)  that  overflow  when  I  read  about  that  Charming 
and  Illustrious  'glorious  Queen'  .  .  .  who  is  winning 
all  hearts  and  delighting  everyone  ..." 

Another  letter,  one  which  I  think  is  a  particularly 
interesting  specimen  of  the  Victorian  style  of  letter- 
writing,  runs: 

...  I  read  with  great  delight  the  "critique"  of  you 
in  The  London  Review,  which  your  Mamma  was  good 
enough  to  send  me.  The  Writer  is  evidently  a  man  of 
highly  Cultivated  Mind,  capable  of  appreciating  Excellency 
and  Genius,  and  like  the  experienced  Lapidary  knows  a 
pearl  and  a  Diamond  when  he  has  the  good  fortune  to  fall 
in  the  way  of  one  of  high,  pure  first  Water,  and  great 
brilliancy.  Even  you  must  now  feel  you  have  captivated 
the  "elite"  of  the  British  Public,  and  taken  root  in  the 
country,  deep,  deep,  deep.  .  .  . 

My  mother  and  I  used  often  to  go  to  see  the  Duchess 
and,  through  her  met  many  pleasant  English  people; 
the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  Lady  Susan 
Vane-Tempest  who  was  Newcastle's  sister,  Lord  Dud- 
ley, Lord  Stanley,  Lord  Derby,  Viscountess  Comber- 
mere,  Prince  de  la  Tour  D'Auvergne,  the  French  Am- 
bassador,— I  cannot  begin  to  remember  them  all— 
and  I  came  really  to  like  the  quaint  little  old  Duchess, 
who  was  always  most  charming  to  me.  One  small 
incident  struck  me  as  pathetic, — at  least,  it  was  half 
pathetic  and  half  amusing.  One  day  she  told  me  with 
impressive  pride  that  she  was  going  to  show  me  one 


126  .An  .American  Prixna  Donna 

of  her  dearest  possessions,  "a  wonderful  table  made 
from  a  great  American  treasure  presented  to  her  by 
her  dear  friend,  Commodore  McVickar. "  She  led  me 
over  to  it  and  tenderly  withdrew  the  cover,  revealing 
to  my  amazement  a  piece  of  rough,  cheap,  Indian 
beadwork,  such  as  all  who  crossed  from  Niagara  to 
Canada  in  those  days  were  familiar  with.  It  was  about 
as  much  like  the  genuine  and  beautiful  beadwork  of 
the  older  tribes  as  the  tawdry  American  imitations  are 
like  true  Japanese  textures  and  curios.  This  poor  speci- 
men the  Duchess  had  had  made  into  a  table-top  and 
covered  it  with  glass  mounted  in  a  gilt  frame,  and  had 
given  it  a  place  of  honour  in  her  reception  room.  I 
suppose  Mr.  McVickar  had  sent  it  to  her  to  give  her  a 
rough  general  idea  of  what  Indian  work  looked  like. 
I  cannot  believe  that  he  intended  to  play  a  joke  on  her. 
She  was  certainly  very  proud  of  it  and,  so  far  as  I 
know,  nobody  ever  had  the  heart  to  disillusion  her. 

More  than  once  I  encountered  in  England  this 
incongruous  and  inappropriate  valuation  of  American 
things.  I  do  not  put  it  down  to  a  general  admiration 
for  us  but,  on  the  contrary,  to  the  fact  that  the  English 
were  so  utterly  and  incredibly  ignorant  with  regard  to 
us.  The  beadwork  of  the  Duchess  reminds  me  of 
another  somewhat  similar  incident. 

At  that  time  there  were  only  two  really  rich  bachelors 
in  New  York  society,  Wright  Sandford  and  William 
Douglass.  Willie  Douglass  was  of  Scotch  descent  and 
sang  very  pleasingly.  Women  went  wild  over  him. 
He  had  a  yacht  that  won  everything  in  sight.  While 
we  were  in  London,  he  and  his  yacht  put  in  an  appear- 
ance at  Cowes  and  he  asked  us  down  to  pay  him  a  visit. 
It  was  a  delightful  experience.  The  Earl  of  Harring- 
ton's country  seat  was  not  far  away  and  the  Earl  with 


And  So— To  England  127 

his  daughters  came  on  board  to  ask  the  yacht's  party  to 
luncheon  the  day  following.  Of  course  we  all  went 
and,  equally  of  course,  we  had  a  wonderful  time. 
Lunch  was  a  deliciously  informal  affair.  At  one  stage 
of  the  proceedings,  somebody  wanted  more  soda 
water,  when  young  Lord  Petersham,  Harrington's 
eldest  son,  jumped  up  to  fetch  it  himself.  He  rushed 
across  the  room  and  flung  open,  with  an  air  of  triumph, 
the  door  of  a  common,  wooden  ice-box, — the  sort  kept 
in  the  pantry  or  outside  the  kitchen  door  by  Americans. 

"Look!"  he  cried,  "did  you  ever  see  anything  so 
splendid?  It 's  our  American  refrigerator  and  the  joy 
of  our  lives !  I  suppose  you  Ve  seen  one  before,  Miss 
Kellogg?" 

I  explained  rather  feebly  that  I  had,  although  not 
in  a  dining-room.  But  the  family  assured  me  that 
a  dining-room  was  the  proper  place  for  it.  I  have 
seldom  seen  anything  so  heart-rendingly  incongruous 
as  that  plain  ugly  article  of  furniture  in  that  dining- 
room  all  carved  woodwork,  family  silver,  and  armorial 
bearings ! 

They  were  dear  people  and  my  heart  went  out  to 
them  more  completely  than  to  any  of  my  London 
friends.  I  soon  discovered  why. 

"You  are  the  most  cordial  English  people  I  've  met 
yet,"  I  said  to  Lady  Philippa  Stanhope,  the  Earl's 
charming  daughter.  Her  eyes  twinkled. 

"Oh,  we're  not  English,"  she  explained,  "we're 
Irish!" 

Yet  even  if  I  did  not  find  the  Londoners  quite  so 
congenial,  I  did  like  them.  I  could  not  have  helped  it, 
they  were  so  courteous  to  my  mother  and  me.  Probably 
they  supposed  us  to  have  Indians  in  our  back-yards 
at  home;  nevertheless  they  were  always  courteous,  at 


128  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

times  cordial.  One  of  the  most  charming  of.  the 
Englishwomen  I  met  was  the  Viscountess  Comber- 
mere.  She  was  one  of  the  Queen's  ladies-in-waiting,  a 
very  vivacious  woman,  and  used  to  keep  dinner  tables 
in  gales  of  laughter.  Just  then  when  anyone  in  London 
wanted  to  introduce  or  excuse  an  innovation,  he  or  she 
would  exclaim,  "the  Queen  does  it!"  and  there  would 
be  nothing  more  for  anyone  to  say.  This  became  a 
sort  of  catch- word.  I  recall  one  afternoon  at  the  Dow- 
ager Duchess  of  Somerset's,  a  cup  of  hot  tea  was  handed 
to  the  Viscountess  who,  pouring  the  liquid  from  the 
cup  into  the  saucer  and  then  sipping  it  from  the  saucer, 
said: 

"Now  ladies,  do  not  think  this  is  rude,  for  I  have 
just  come  from  the  Queen  and  saw  her  do  the  same. 
Let  us  emulate  the  Queen!"  Then,  seeing  us  hesitate, 
"the  Queen  does  it,  ladies!  the  Queen  does  it!" 

Whereupon  everyone  present  drank  tea  from  their 
saucers. 

It  was  the  Viscountess,  also,  who  so  greatly  amused 
my  mother  at  a  luncheon  party  by  saying  to  her  with 
the  most  polite  interest : 

"You  speak  English  remarkably  well,  Mrs.  Kellogg! 
Do  they  speak  English  in  America?" 

"Yes,  a  little,"  replied  mother,  quietly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
AT  HER  MAJESTY'S 

A  DELINA  PATTI  came  to  see  us  at  once.  I  had 
•**  known  her  in  America  when  she  was  singing 
with  her  sister  and  when,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
many  people  found  Carlotta  the  more  satisfactory 
singer  of  the  two.  I  was  glad  to  see  her  again  even 
though  we  were  prime  donne  of  rival  opera  organisa- 
tions. Adelina  headed  the  list  of  artists  at  Covent 
Garden  under  Mr.  Gye,  among  whom  were  some  of  the 
biggest  names  in  Europe.  Indeed,  I  found  myself 
confronted  with  the  competition  of  several  favourites 
of  the  English  people.  At  my  own  theatre,  Her 
Majesty's,  was  Mme.  Titjiens,  always  much  beloved 
in  England  and  still  a  fine  artist.  Christine  Nilsson 
was  also  a  member  of  the  company;  had  sung  there 
earlier  in  that  year  and  was  to  sing  there  again  later 
in  the  season. 

A  tour  de  force  of  Adelina's  was  my  old  friend  Linda 
di  Chamounix.  She  was  supposed  to  be  very  brilliant 
in  the  part,  especially  in  the  Cavatina  of  the  first  act. 
As  for  Marguerite  it  was  considered  her  private  and 
particular  property  at  Covent  Garden,  and  Nilsson's 
private  and  particular  property  at  Her  Majesty's. 

I  have  been  often  asked  my  opinion  of  Patti's  voice. 
She  had  a  beautiful  voice  that,  in  her  early  days,  was 
very  high,  and  she  is,  on  the  whole,  quite  the  most 
9  129 


130  ,A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

remarkable  singer  that  I  ever  heard.  But  her  voice 
has  not  been  a  high  one  for  many  years.  It  has 
changed,  changed  in  pitch  and  register.  It  is  no 
longer  a  soprano;  it  is  a  mezzo  and  must  be  judged  by 
quite  different  standards.  I  heard  her  when  she  sang 
over  here  in  America  thirteen  years  ago.  She  gave  her 
old  Cavatina  from  Linda  and  sang  the  whole  of  it  a 
tone  and  a  half  lower  than  formerly.  While  the  public 
did  not  know  what  the  trouble  was,  they  could  not  help 
perceiving  the  lack  of  brilliancy.  Ah,  those  who  have 
heard  her  in  only  the  last  fifteen  years  or  so  know 
nothing  at  all  about  Patti's  voice!  Yet  it  was  always 
a  light  voice,  although  I  doubt  if  the  world  realised  the 
fact.  She  was  always  desperately  afraid  of  overstrain- 
ing it,  and  so  was  Maurice  Strakosch  for  her.  She 
never  could  sing  more  than  three  times  in  a  week  and, 
of  those  three,  one  role  at  least  had  to  be  very  light. 
A  great  deal  is  heard  about  the  wonderful  preservation 
of  Patti's  voice.  It  was  wonderfully  preserved  thir- 
teen years  ago.  How  could  it  have  been  otherwise, 
considering  the  care  she  has  always  taken  of  herself? 
Such  a  life !  Everything  divided  off  carefully  according 
to  regime: — so  much  to  eat,  so  far  to  walk,  so  long  to 
sleep,  just  such  and  such  things  to  do  and  no  others! 
And,  above  all,  she  has  allowed  herself  few  emotions. 
Every  singer  knows  that  emotions  are  what  exhaust 
and  injure  the  voice.  She  never  acted;  and  she  never, 
never  felt.  As  Violetta  she  did  express  some  slight 
emotion,  to  be  sure.  Her  Gran  Dio  in  the  last  act 
was  sung  with  something  like  passion,  at  least  with 
more  passion  than  she  ever  sang  anything  else.  Yes: 
in  La  Traviaia,  after  she  had  run  away  with  Nicolini, 
she  did  succeed  in  putting  an  unusual  amount  of 
warmth  into  the  role  of  Violetta. 


Adelina  Patti 

From  a  photograph  by  Fredericks 


At  Her  Majesty's  131 

But  her  great  success  was  always  due  to  her  wonder- 
ful voice.  Her  acting  was  essentially  mechanical.  As 
an  intelligent  actress,  a  creator  of  parts,  or  even  as  an 
interesting  personality,  she  could  never  approach  Chris- 
tine Nilsson.  Nilsson  had  both  originality  and  mag- 
netism, a  combination  irresistibly  captivating.  Her 
singing  was  the  embodiment  of  dramatic  expression. 

In  September  of  that  year  we  went  down  to  Edin- 
burgh to  see  the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey.  To  confess 
the  truth,  I  remember  just  two  things  clearly  about 
Scotland.  One  was  that,  at  the  ruins,  Colonel  Stebbins 
picked  up  a  piece  of  crumbling  stone,  spoke  of  the 
strange  effect  of  age  upon  it,  and  let  it  drop.  Around 
turned  the  showman,  or  guide,  or  whatever  the  person 
was  called  who  crammed  the  sights  down  our  throats. 

"You  Americans  are  the  curse  of  the  country!"  he 
exclaimed  sharply. 

My  other  distinct  memory — with  associations  off 
much  discomfort  and  annoyance — is  that  I  left  one 
rubber  overshoe  in  Loch  Lomond. 

So  much  for  Scotland.  We  did  not  stay  long;  and 
were  soon  back  in  London  ready  for  work. 

Our  rehearsals  were  rather  fun.  It  seemed  strange 
to  be  able  to  walk  across  a  stage  without  getting  the 
hem  of  one's  skirt  dirty.  English  theatres  are  incredi- 
bly clean  when  one  considers  what  a  dirty,  sooty, 
grimy  town  London  is.  Our  opera  was  at  the  old 
Drury  Lane,  although  we  always  called  it  Her  Ma- 
jesty's because  that  was  the  name  of  the  opera 
company.  I  was  amused  to  find  that  a  member  of  the 
company,  a  big  young  basso  named  "Signer  Foli," 
turned  out  to  be  none  other  than  Walter  Foley,  a  boy 
from  my  old  home  in  the  Hartford  region.  I  always 
called  him  "the  Irish  Italian  from  Connecticut." 


132  v\n  American  Prima  Donna 

We  opened  on  November  2d  in  Faust.  There  was 
rather  a  flurry  of  indignation  that  a  young  American 
Prima  donna  should  dare  to  plunge  into  Marguerite 
the  very  first  thing.  The  fact  that  the  young  American 
had  sung  it  before  other  artists  had,  with  the  exception 
of  Patti  and  Titjiens,  and  that  she  was  generally 
believed  to  know  something  about  it,  mattered  not  at 
all.  English  people  are  acknowledged  idolaters  and 
notoriously  cold  to  newcomers.  They  cling  to  some 
imperishable  memory  of  a  poor  soul  whose  voice 
has  been  dead  for  years:  and  it  was  undoubtedly  an 
inversion  of  this  same  loyalty  to  their  favourites  that 
made  them  so  dislike  the  idea  of  Marguerite  being 
selected  for  the  new  young  woman's  debut.  But, 
really,  though  on  a  slightly  different  scale,  it  was  not  so 
unlike  the  early  days  of  Linda  over  again  when  the 
Italians  accused  me  with  so  much  animosity  of  taking 
the  bread  out  of  their  mouths.  It  can  easily  be  believed 
that,  with  Nilsson  holding  all  records  of  Marguerite 
at  Her  Majesty's,  and  with  Adelina  waiting  at  Covent 
Garden  with  murderous  sweetness  to  see  what  I 
was  going  to  do  with  her  favourite  role,  I  was  wretch- 
edly nervous.  When  the  first  night  came  around  no 
one  had  a  good  word  for  me;  everybody  was  indiffer- 
ent; and  I  honestly  do  not  know  what  I  should  have 
done  if  it  had  not  been  for  Santley — dear,  big-hearted 
Santley.  He  was  our  Valentine,  that  one,  great, 
incomparable  Valentine  for  whom  Gounod  wrote 
the  Dio  possente.  I  was  walking  rather  shakily 
across  the  stage  for  my  first  entrance,  feeling  utterly 
frightened  and  lonely,  and  looking,  I  dare  say,  nearly 
as  miserable  as  I  felt,  when  a  warm,  strong  hand  was 
laid  gently  on  my  shoulder. 

"Courage,  little  one,  courage,"  said  Santley,  smiling 


At  Her  Majesty's  133 

at  me  and  patting  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  very  small, 
unhappy,  frightened  child. 

I  smiled  back  at  him  and,  suddenly,  I  felt  strong 
and  hopeful  and  brave  again.  Onto  the  stage  I  went 
with  a  curiously  sure  feeling  that  I  was  going  to  do  well 
after  all. 

I  suppose  I  must  have  done  well.  There  was  a 
packed  house  and  very  soon  I  felt  it  with  me.  I  was 
called  out  many  times,  once  in  the  middle  of  the  act 
after  the  church  scene,  an  occurrence  that  was  so  far 
as  I  know  unprecedented.  Colonel  Keppel,  the  Prince 
of  Wales's  aide  (I  did  not  dream  then  how  well-known 
the  name  Keppel  was  destined  to  be  in  connection  with 
that  of  his  royal  master),  came  behind  during  the 
entr'acte  to  congratulate  me  on  behalf  of  the  Prince. 
In  later  performances  his  Highness  did  me  the  honour 
of  coming  himself.  The  London  newspapers — of 
which,  frankly,  I  had  stood  in  great  dread — had 
delightful  things  to  say.  This  is  the  way  in  which  one 
of  them  welcomed  me:  "...  She  has  only  one  fault: 
if  she  were  but  English,  she  would  be  simply  perfect!" 
The  editorial  comments  in  The  Athen&um  of  Chorley, 
that  gorgon  of  English  criticism,  included  the  following 
paragraph : 

Miss  Kellogg  has  a  voice,  indeed,  that  leaves  little  to 
wish  for,  and  proves  by  her  use  of  it  that  her  studies  have 
been  both  assiduous  and  in  the  right  path.  She  is,  in  fact, 
though  so  young,  a  thoroughly  accomplished  singer — in 
the  school,  at  any  rate,  toward  which  the  music  of  M. 
Gounod  consistently  leans,  and  which  essential!}'  differs 
from  the  florid  school  of  Rossini  and  the  Italians  before 
Verdi.  One  of  the  great  charms  of  her  singing  is  her 
perfect  enunciation  of  the  words  she  has  to  utter.  She 
never  sacrifices  sense  to  sound;  but  fits  the  verbal  text  to 


134  -An  .American  Prima  Donna 

the  music,  as  if  she  attached  equal  importance  to  each. 
Of  the  Italian  language  she  seems  to  be  a  thorough  mistress, 
and  we  may  well  believe  that  she  speaks  it  both  fluently 
and  correctly.  These  manifest  advantages,  added  to  a 
graceful  figure,  a  countenance  full  of  intelligence,  and 
undoubted  dramatic  ability,  make  up  a  sum  of  attractions 
to  be  envied,  and  easily  explain  the  interest  excited  by 
Miss  Kellogg  at  the  outset  and  maintained  by  her  to  the 
end. 

But,  oh,  how  grateful  I  was  to  that  good  Santley  for 
giving  the  little  boost  to  my  courage  at  just  the  right 
moment!  He  was  always  a  fine  friend,  as  well  as  a 
fine  singer.  I  admired  him  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  both  as  an  artist  and  a  man,  and  not  only  for 
what  he  was  but  also  for  what  he  had  grown  from. 
He  was  only  a  ship-chandler's  clerk  in  the  beginning. 
Indeed,  he  was  in  the  office  of  a  friend  of  mine  in 
Liverpool.  From  that  he  rose  to  the  foremost  rank  of 
musical  art.  Yet  that  friend  of  mine  never  took 
the  least  interest  in  Santley,  nor  was  he  ever  will- 
ing to  recognise  Santley's  standing.  Merely  be- 
cause he  had  once  held  so  inferior  a  position  this  man 
I  knew — and  he  was  not  a  bad  sort  of  man  otherwise — 
was  always  intolerant  and  incredulous  of  Santley's 
success  and  would  never  even  go  to  hear  him  sing.  It 
is  true  that  Santley  never  did  entirely  shake  off  the 
influences  of  his  early  environment,  a  characteristic  to 
be  remarked  in  many  men  of  his  nationality.  In 
addition  to  this,  some  men  are  so  sincere  and  simple- 
hearted  and  earnest  that  they  do  not  take  kindly  to 
artificial  environment  and  I  think  Santley  was  one 
of  these.  And  he  was  a  dear  man,  and  kind.  His 
wife,  a  relative  of  Fanny  Kemble,  I  never  knew  very 
well  as  she  was  a  good  deal  of  an  invalid. 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Linda,  1868 

From  a  photograph  by  Stereoscopic  Co. 


At  Her  Majesty's  135 

On  the  Qth  we  repeated  Faust  and  on  the  nth  we 
gave  Traviata.  This  also,  I  feel  sure,  must  have 
irritated  Adelina.  It  is  a  curious  little  fact  that,  while 
the  opera  of  Traviata  was  not  only  allowed  but  also 
greatly  liked  in  London,  the  play  La  Dame  aux  Ca- 
millas— which  as  we  all  know  is  practically  the  Traviata 
libretto — had  been  rigorously  banned  by  the  English 
censor!  Traviata  brought  me  more  curtain  calls  than 
ever.  The  British  public  was  really  growing  to  like 
me! 

Martha  followed  on  the  I5th.  This  was  another 
role  in  which  I  had  to  challenge  comparison  with 
Nilsson,  who  was  fond  of  it,  although  I  never  liked  her 
classic  style  in  the  part.  It  was  given  in  Italian;  but 
I  sang  TJie  Last  Rose  of  Summer  in  English,  like  a 
ballad,  and  the  people  loved  it.  I  wore  a  blue  satin 
gown  as  Martha  which,  alas!  I  lost  in  the  theatre 
fire  not  long  after. 

Then  came  Linda  di  Chamounix,  the  second  role  that 
I  had  ever  sung.  I  was  glad  to  sing  it  again,  and  in 
England,  and  the  newspapers  spoke  of  it  as  "a  great 
and  crowning  success"  for  me.  As  soon  as  we  had 
given  this  opera,  Gye,  the  impresario  at  Covent  Gar- 
den, decided  it  was  time  to  show  off  Patti  in  that 
role.  So  he  promptly — hastily,  even — revived  Linda 
for  her.  I  have  always  felt,  however,  that  Linda 
was  tacitly  given  to  me  by  the  public.  Arditi,  our 
conductor  at  Her  Majesty's,  wrote  a  waltz  for  me 
to  sing  at  the  close  of  the  opera,  The  Kellogg  Waltz, 
and  I  wore  a  charming  new  costume  in  the  part,  a 
simple  little  yellow  gown,  with  a  blue  moire  silk  apron 
and  tiny  pale  pink  roses.  The  combination  of  pink 
and  yellow  was  always  a  favourite  one  with  me.  I  wore 
it  in  my  early  appearance  as  Violetta  and,  later, 


136  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

also  in  Tmviata,  I  wore  a  variant  of  the  same  colour 
scheme  that  was  called  by  my  friends  in  London  my 
"rainbow  frock."  It  was  composed  of  a  grosgrain 
silk  petticoat  of  the  hue  known  as  apricot,  trimmed 
with  mauve  and  pale  turquoise  shades;  the  overskirt 
was  caught  back  at  either  side  with  a  turquoise  bow 
and  the  train  was  of  plain  turquoise.  I  took  a  serious 
interest  in  my  costumes  in  those  days — and,  indeed, 
in  all  days!  This  latter  gown  was  one  of  Worth's 
creations  and  met  with  much  admiration.  More  than 
once  have  I  received  letters  asking  where  it  was  made. 
The  English  public  was  most  cordial  and  kindly 
toward  me  and  unfailingly  appreciative  of  my  work. 
But  I  believe  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that, 
inherently  and  permanently,  the  English  are  an  un- 
musical people.  They  do  not  like  fire,  nor  passion, 
nor  great  moments  in  either  life  nor  art.  Mozart's 
music,  that  runs  peacefully  and  simply  along,  is  pre- 
cisely what  suits  them  best.  They  adore  it.  They 
likewise  adore  Rossini  and  Handel.  They  think  that 
the  crashing  emotional  climaxes  of  the  more  advanced 
composers  are  extravagant;  and,  both  by  instinct  and 
principle,  they  dislike  the  immoderate  and  the  extreme 
in  all  things.  They  are  in  fact  a  simple  and  primitive 
people,  temperamentally,  actually,  and  artistically.  I 
remember  that  the  first  year  I  was  in  London  all  the 
women  were  singing: 

My  mother  bids  me  bind  my  hair 
And  lace  my  bodice  blue! 

It  wandered  along  so  sweetly  and  mildly,  not  to  say 
insipidly,  that  of  course  it  was  popular  with  Victorian 
England. 


.At  Her  Majesty's  137 

Finally,  came  Don  Giovanni  on  December  3d.  I 
played  Zerlina  as  I  had  done  in  America.  Later 
I  came  to  prefer  Donna  Anna.  But  in  London 
Titjiens  did  Donna  Anna.  Santley  was  the  Alma- 
viva  and  Mme.  Sinico  was  the  Donna  Elvira. 
The  following  spring  when  we  gave  our  "all  star  cast" 
Nilsson  was  the  Elvira.  I  had  no  Zerlina  cos- 
tume with  me  and  the  decision  to  put  on  the  opera 
was  made  in  a  hurry,  so  I  got  out  my  old  Rosina 
dress  and  wore  it  and  it  answered  the  purpose  every 
bit  as  well  as  if  I  had  had  a  new  one. 

The  opera  went  splendidly,  so  splendidly  that,  two 
days  later,  on  the  5th,  we  gave  it  again  at  a  matinee, 
or,  as  it  was  the  fashion  to  say  then,  a  "morning 
performance."  The  success  was  repeated.  I  caught 
a  most  terrible  cold,  however,  and  returned  in  a  bad 
temper  to  Miss  Edward's  Hotel  to  nurse  myself  for  a 
few  days  and  get  in  condition  for  the  next  performance. 
But  there  was  destined  to  be  no  next  performance  at 
the  old  Drury  Lane. 

The  following  evening  at  about  half-past  ten,  my 
mother,  Colonel  Stebbins,  and  I  were  talking  in  our 
sitting-room  with  the  window-shades  up.  Suddenly 
I  saw  a  red  glow  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  and  pointed 
it  out. 

"It 's  a  fire!"  I  exclaimed. 

"And  it 's  in  the  direction  of  the  theatre!"  said 
Colonel  Stebbins. 

"Oh,  I -hope  that  Her  Majesty's  is  in  no  danger!" 
cried  my  mother. 

We  did  not  think  at  first  that  it  could  be  the  theatre 
itself,  but  Colonel  Stebbins  sent  his  valet  off  in  a  hurry 
to  make  enquiries.  While  he  was  gone  a  messenger 
arrived  in  great  haste  from  the  Duchess  of  Somerset 


138  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

asking  for  assurances  of  my  safety.  Then  came  other 
messages  from  friends  all  over  London  and  soon  the 
man  servant  returned  to  confirm  the  reports  that 
were  reaching  us.  Her  Majesty's  had  caught  fire  from 
the  carpenter's  shop  underneath  the  stage  and,  before 
morning,  had  burned  to  the  ground. 

Arditi  had  been  holding  an  orchestra  rehearsal  there 
at  the  time  and  the  last  piece  of  music  ever  played  in 
the  old  theatre  was  The  Kellogg  Waltz. 


Mr.  McHenry 

From  a  photograph  by  Brady 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ACROSS  THE  CHANNEL 

TITJIENS  had  smelled  smoke  and  she  had  been  told 
that  it  was  nothing  but  shavings  that  were  being 
burned.  Luckily,  nobody  was  hurt  and,  although 
some  of  our  costumes  were  lost,  we  artists  did  not 
suffer  so  very  much  after  all.  But  of  course  our 
season  was  summarily  put  an  end  to  and  we  all  scat- 
tered for  work  and  play  until  the  spring  season  when 
Mapleson  would  want  us  back. 

My  mother  and  I  went  across  to  Paris  without 
delay.  I  had  wanted  to  see  "the  Continent"  since 
I  was  a  child  and  I  must  say  that,  in  my  heart  of 
hearts,  I  almost  welcomed  the  fire  that  set  me  free  to  go 
sightseeing  and  adventuring  after  the  slavery  of  dress- 
ing-rooms and  rehearsals.  Crossing  the  Channel  I 
was  the  heroine  of  the  boat  because,  while  I  was  just  a 
little  seasick,  I  was  not  enough  so  to  give  in  to  it.  I 
can  remember  forcing  myself  to  sit  up  and  walk  about 
and  even  talk  with  a  grim  and  savage  feeling  that  I 
would  die  rather  than  admit  myself  beaten  by  a  silly 
and  disgusting  malaise  like  that;  and  after  crossing  the 
ocean  with  impunity  too.  Everyone  else  on  board  was 
abjectly  ill  and  I  expect  it  was  partly  pride  that  kept 
me  well. 

In  Paris  we  went  first  to  the  Louvre  Hotel  where  we 
were  nearly  frozen  to  death.  As  soon  as  we  could,  we 

139 


14°  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

moved  into  rooms  where  we  might  thaw  out  and 
become  almost  warm,  although  we  never  found  the 
temperature  really  comfortable  the  whole  time  we 
lived  in  French  houses.  We  saw  any  number  of  plays, 
visited  cathedrals  and  picture  galleries,  and  bought 
clothes.  In  fact  we  did  all  the  regulation  things,  for 
we  were  determined  to  make  the  most  of  every  minute 
of  our  holiday.  Rather  oddly,  one  of  the  entertain- 
ments I  remember  most  distinctly  was  a  production 
of  Gulliver's  Travels  at  the  Theatre  Chatelet.  It  was 
the  dullest  play  in  the  world ;  but  the  scenery  and  effects 
were  splendid. 

I  was  not  particularly  enthusiastic  over  the  French 
theatres.  Indeed,  I  found  them  very  limited  and 
disappointing.  I  had  gone  to  France  expecting  every 
theatrical  performance  in  Paris  to  be  a  revelation. 
Probably  I  respect  French  art  as  much  as  any  one ;  but 
I  believe  it  is  looked  up  to  a  great  deal  more  than  is 
justified.  Consider  Mme.  Carvalho's  wig  for  example, 
and,  as  for  that,  her  costume  as  well.  Yet  we  all 
turned  to  the  Parisians  as  authority  for  the  theatre. 
The  pictures  of  the  first  distinguished  Marguerite 
give  a  fine  idea  of  the  French  stage  effects  in  the 
sixties.  A  few  years  ago  I  heard  Tannhduser  in  Paris. 
The  manner  in  which  the  pilgrims  wandered  in  con- 
vinced me  in  my  opinion.  The  whole  management 
was  inefficient  and  Wagner's  injunctions  were  disre- 
garded at  every  few  bars.  The  French  Gallicise  every- 
thing. They  simply  cannot  get  inside  the  mental 
point  of  view  of  any  other  country.  Though  they  are 
popularly  considered  to  be  so  facile  and  adaptable, 
they  are  in  truth  the  most  obstinate,  one-idead,  single- 
sided  race  on  earth  barring  none  except,  possibly,  the 
Italians.  Gounod's  Faust  is  a  good  example — a  Ger- 


.Across  tHe  Channel  141 

man  story  treated  by  Frenchmen.  Remarkably  little 
that  is  Teutonic  has  been  left  in  it.  Goethe  has  been 
eliminated  so  far  as  possible.  The  French  were  held 
by  the  drama,  but  the  poetry  and  the  symbolism  meant 
nothing  at  all  to  them.  Being  German,  they  had  no 
use  for  its  poetry  and  its  symbolism.  The  French 
colour  and  alter  foreign  thought  just  as  they  colour 
and  alter  foreign  phraseology.  They  do  it  in  a  way 
more  subtle  than  any  usual  difficulties  of  translation 
from  one  tongue  to  another.  The  process  is  more  a 
form  of  transmuting  than  of  translating — words, 
thoughts,  actions — into  another  element  entirely.  How 
idiotic  it  sounds  when  Hamlet  sings: 

Eire — ou  n'etre  pas! 

Perhaps  this,  however,  is  not  entirely  the  fault  of  the 
French.  Shakespeare  should  never  be  set  to  music. 

There  is  also  the  question  of  traditions.  I  may 
seem  to  be  contradicting  myself  when  I  find  fault  with 
a  certain  French  school  for  its  blind  and  bigoted 
adherence  to  traditions;  but  there  should  be  modera- 
tion in  all  things  and  a  hidebound  rigidity  in  stupid 
old  forms  is  just  as  inartistic  as  a  free-and-easy  elas- 
ticity in  flighty  new  ones.  It  is  possible  to  put  some 
old  wine  in  new  bottles,  but  it  must  be  poured  in  very 
gently.  French  artists  learn  most  when  once  they  get 
away  from  France.  Maurel  is  a  good  example.  Look 
at  the  way  he  grew  and  developed  when  he  went  to 
England  and  America  and  was  allowed  to  work  problems 
and  ideas  out  by  himself. 

Once  when  in  Paris  I  wanted  to  vary  and  freshen  my 
costume  of  Marguerite,  give  it  a  new  yet  consistent 
touch  here  and  there.  I  was  not  planning  to  renovate 
the  role,  only  the  girl's  clothes.  Having  always  felt 


142  An  American  Frixna  Donna 

that  the  Grand  Opera  was  a  Mecca  to  us  artists  from 
afar,  I  hastened  there  and  climbed  up  the  huge  stair- 
way to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Director.  Monsieur 
had  never  heard  of  me.  Frenchmen  make  a  point 
never  to  have  heard  of  any  one  outside  of  France.  The 
fact  that  I  was  merely  the  first  and  the  most  famous 
Marguerite  across  the  sea  did  not  count.  He  was, 
however,  very  polite.  He  brought  out  his  wonderful 
costume  books  that  were  full  of  new  ideas  to  me  and 
delighted  me  with  numberless  fresh  possibilities.  I 
saw  unexplored  fields  in  the  direction  of  correct  cos- 
tuming and  exclaimed  over  the  designs,  Monsieur 
watching  my  enthusiasm  with  bored  civility.  There 
was  one  particularly  enchanting  design  for  a  silver 
chatelaine,  heavy  and  mediaeval  in  character.  I  could 
see  it  with  my  mind's  eye  hanging  from  Marguerite's 
bodice.  This  I  said  to  M.  le  Directeur:  but  he  shook 
his  dignified  head  with  a  frown. 

"Too  rich.  Marguerite  was  too  poor, "  he  said  with 
weary  brevity. 

"Oh,  no!"  I  explained  volubly  and  eagerly,  "she 
was  of  the  well-to-do  class — the  burghers — don't  you 
remember?  Marguerite  and  Valentine  owned  their 
house  and,  though  they  were  of  course  of  peasant  blood, 
this  sort  of  chatelaine  seems  to  me  just  the  thing  that 
any  German  girl  might  possess. " 

"Too  rich,"  Monsieur  put  in  imperturbably. 

"But,"  I  protested,  "it  might  be  an  heirloom,  you 
know,  and 

"Too  rich,"  he  repeated  politely;  and  he  added  in  a 
calm,  dreamy  voice  as  he  shut  up  the  book,  "I  think 
that  Mademoiselle  will  make  a  mistake  if  she  ever  tries 
anything  new!" 

As  for  sightseeing  in  France,  my  mother  and  I  did 


Across  tHe  Channel  143 

any  amount  of  it  on  that  first  visit.  Sometimes  I  was 
charmed  but  more  often  I  was  disillusioned.  There 
have  been  few  "sights "  in  my  life  that  have  come  up  to 
my  "great  expectations"  or  been  half  as  wonderful  as 
my  dreams.  This  is  the  penalty  of  a  too  vivid  imagina- 
tion; nothing  can  ever  be  as  perfect  as  one's  fancy 
paints  it.  The  view  of  Mont  Blanc  from  the  terrace 
of  Voltaire's  house  near  the  borderland  of  France  and 
Switzerland  is  one  of  the  few  in  my  experience  that  I 
have  found  more  lovely  than  I  could  have  dreamed  it  to 
be.  Of  all  the  palaces  that  I  have  been  in — and  they 
have  numbered  several — the  only  one  that  ever  seemed 
to  me  like  a  real  palace  was  Fontainebleau.  Small 
but  exquisite,  it  looked  like  a  haven  of  rest  and  loveli- 
ness, as  though  its  motto  might  well  be:  "How  to  be 
happy  though  a  crowned  head!" 

Speaking  of  crowned  heads  reminds  me  that  while 
we  were  in  Paris  Mr.  McHenry,  our  English  friend 
from  Holland  Park,  made  an  appointment  for  me  to  be 
presented  to  the  ex-Queen  of  Spain,  the  Bourbon  prin- 
cess, Christina,  so  beloved  by  many  Spaniards.  I  was 
delighted  because  I  had  never  been  presented  to  royalty 
and  a  Spanish  queen  seemed  a  very  splendid  sort  of 
personage  even  if  she  did  not  happen  to  be  ruling  at 
the  moment.  Christina  had  withdrawn  from  Spain 
and  had  married  the  Duke  de  Rienzares.  They  lived 
in  a  beautiful  palace  on  the  Champs  Elysees.  There 
are  nothing  but  shops  on  the  site  now  but  it  used  to 
be  very  imposing,  especially  the  formal  entrance  which, 
if  I  remember  correctly,  was  off  the  Rue  St.  Honore. 
Mrs.  and  Mr.  McHenry  went  with  me  and,  after 
being  admitted,  we  were  shown  up  a  marble  staircase 
into  what  was  called  the  Cameo  Room,  a  small,  austere 
apartment  filled  with  cameos  of  the  Bourbons.  Queen 


144  -A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

Christina  liked  to  live  in  small  and  unpretentious 
rooms;  they  seemed  less  suggestive  of  a  palace. 

I  found  that  "royalty  at  home"  was  about  as  simple 
as  anything  could  conceivably  be;  not  quite  as  plain 
as  the  old  Dowager  Duchess  of  Somerset  to  be  sure 
but  quite  plain  enough.  The  Queen  and  the  Duke  de 
Rienzares  entered  without  ceremony.  The  Queen  wore 
a  severe  and  simple  black  gown  that  cleared  the  floor 
by  an  inch  or  two.  It  was  a  perfectly  practical  and 
useful  dress,  admirably  suited  for  housekeeping  or 
tidying  up  a  room.  Around  the  royal  lady's  shoulders 
hung  a  little  red  plaid  shawl  such  as  no  American 
would  wear.  She  was  Spanishly  dark  and  her  black 
hair  was  pulled  into  a  knot  about  the  size  of  a  silver 
dollar  in  the  middle  of  the  back  of  her  head.  I  have 
never  seen  her  en  grande  toilette  and  so  do  not  know 
whether  or  not  she  ever  looked  any  less  like  a  respectable 
housekeeper.  She  had  a  delightful  manner  and  was 
most  gracious.  She  had,  with  all  the  Bourbon  pride, 
also  the  Bourbon  gift  of  making  herself  pleasant 
and  of  putting  people  at  their  ease.  Of  course  she 
was  immensely  accomplished  and  spoke  Italian  as 
perfectly  as  she  did  Spanish.  The  Duke  seemed 
harmless  and  amiable.  He  had  little  to  say,  was 
thoroughly  subordinate,  and  seemed  entirely  acclimated 
to  his  position  in  life  as  the  ordinarily  born  husband 
of  a  Queen. 

Our  visit  was  not  much  of  an  ordeal  after  all.  It 
was  really  quite  instinctively  that  I  courtesied  and 
backed  out  of  the  room  and  observed  the  other  points 
of  etiquette  that  are  correct  when  one  is  introduced  to 
royalty.  As  it  was  a  private  presentation,  it  had  not 
been  thought  necessary  to  coach  me,  and  as  I  backed 
myself  out  of  the  august  presence,  keeping  myself  as 


Across  tKe  CKannel  145 

nearly  as  possible  in  a  courtesying  attitude,  I  caught 
Mr.  McHenry  looking  at  me  with  amused  approval. 

"Well,"  said  he,  when  we  were  safe  in  the  hall  and  I 
had  straightened  up,  "I  should  say  that  you  had  been 
accustomed  to  courts  and  crowned  heads  all  your  life! 
You  acted  as  if  you  had  been  brought  up  on  it!" 

"Ah,"  I  replied,  "that  comes  from  my  opera  train- 
ing. We  learn  on  the  stage  how  to  treat  kings  and 
queens. " 

Not  more  than  a  fortnight  after  this  I  had  an  offer 
for  an  engagement  at  the  Madrid  Opera  for  $400.00  a 
night,  very  good  for  Spain  in  those  days.  I  suppose 
that  it  came  indirectly  through  the  influence  of  Queen 
Christina.  I  wanted  to  go  to  Spain,  but  my  mother 
would  not  let  me  accept.  We  were  almost  pioneers  of 
travel  in  the  modern  sense  and  had  no  one  to  give  us 
authoritative  ideas  of  other  countries.  People  alarmed 
us  about  the  climate,  declaring  it  unhealthy;  and 
about  the  public,  which  they  said  was  capricious  and 
rude.  The  warning  about  the  public  particularly 
frightened  me.  I  should  never  object  to  my  efforts 
being  received  in  silence  in  case  of  disapproval,  but  I 
felt  that  I  could  not  survive  what  I  had  been  told  was 
the  Spanish  custom  of  hissing.  I  was  also  told  that 
Spanish  audiences  were  very  mercurial  and  difficult  to 
win.  So  we  refused  the  Madrid  Opera  offer,  and 
I  have  never  sung  in  either  Spain  or  Italy  principally 
because  of  my  dread  of  the  hissing  habit. 

That  same  year  I  heard  Christine  Nilsson  for  the 
first  time,  in  Martha  at  the  Theatre  Lyrique  and,  later, 
in  Hamlet  at  the  same  theatre  with  Faure.  Shortly 
after  both  Nilsson  and  Faure  were  taken  over  by  the 
Grand  Opera.  Ophelie  had  been  written  for  Nilsson 
and  composed  entirely  around  her  voice.  She  created 


146  -An  .American  Prima  Donna 

the  part,  singing  it  exquisitely,  and  Ambrose  Thomas 
paid  her  the  compliment  of  taking  his  two  principal 
soprano  melodies  from  old  Swedish  folk-songs.  Nilsson 
could  sing  Swedish  melodies  in  a  way  to  drive  one 
crazy  or  break  one's  heart.  I  have  been  quite  carried 
away  with  them  again  and  again.  There  was  one 
delicious  song  that  she  called  Le  Bal  in  which  a  young 
fellow  asks  a  girl  to  dance  and  she  is  very  shy.  It  was 
slight,  but  ever  so  pretty,  and  it  had  a  minor  melody 
that  was  typically  northern.  These  were  the  good 
days  before  her  voice  became  impaired.  In  this  con- 
nection I  may  mention  that  it  was  Christine  Nilsson  who, 
having  heard  the  Goodwin  girls  sing  Way  Down  upon  the 
Swanee  River,  first  introduced  it  on  the  stage  as  an  encore. 
While  speaking  of  Nilsson,  I  want  to  record  that 
I  was  present  on  the  night,  much  later,  when  she 
practically  murdered  the  high  register  of  her  voice. 
She  had  five  upper  notes  the  quality  of  which  was 
unlike  any  other  I  ever  heard  and  that  possessed  a 
peculiar  charm.  The  tragedy  happened  during  a 
performance  of  The  Magic  Flute  in  London  and  I  was 
in  the  Newcastles'  box,  which  was  near  the  stage. 
Nilsson  was  the  Queen  of  the  Night,  one  of  her  most 
successful  early  roles.  The  second  aria  in  The  Magic 
Flute  is  more  famous  and  less  difficult  than  the  first 
aria  and,  also,  more  effective.  Nilsson  knew  well  the 
ineffectiveness  of  the  ending  of  the  first  aria  in  the  two 
weakest  notes  of  a  soprano's  voice,  A  natural  and  B 
fiat.  I  never  could  understand  why  a  master  like 
Mozart  should  have  chosen  to  use  them  as  he  did. 
There  is  no  climax  to  the  song.  One  has  to  climb  up 
hard  and  fast  and  then  stop  short  in  the  middle.  It  is 
an  appalling  thing  to  do :  and  that  night  Nilsson  took 
those  two  notes  at  the  last  in  chest  tones. 


Christine  Nilsson  as  Queen  of  the  Night 

From  a  photograph  by  Pierre  Petit 


.Across  tKe  CHanrxel  147 

"Great  heavens!"  I  gasped,  "what  is  she  doing? 
What  is  the  woman  thinking  of!" 

Of  course  I  knew  she  was  doing  it  to  get  volume  and 
vibration  and  to  give  that  trying  climax  some  character. 
But  to  say  that  it  was  a  fatal  attempt  is  to  put  it 
mildly.  She  absolutely  killed  a  certain  quality  in  her 
voice  there  and  then  and  she  never  recovered  it.  Even 
that  night  she  had  to  cut  out  the  second  great  aria. 
Her  beautiful  high  notes  were  gone  for  ever.  Probably 
the  fatality  was  the  result  of  the  last  stroke  to  a  con- 
tinued strain  which  she  had  put  upon  her  voice.  After 
that  she,  like  Mario,  began  to  be  dramatic  to  make  up 
for  what  she  had  lost.  She,  the  classical  and  cold 
artist,  became  full  of  expression  and  animation.  But 
the  later  Nilsson  was  very  different  from  the  Nilsson 
whom  I  first  heard  in  Paris  during  the  winter  of  1868, 
when,  besides  singing  the  music  perfectly,  she  was, 
with  her  blond  hair  and  broad  brow,  a  living  Ophelie. 
As  I  have  said,  Faure,  the  baritone,  was  her  Hamlet 
in  that  early  performance.  He  was  a  great  artist,  a 
great  actor  in  whatever  role  he  took.  His  voice  was 
not  wonderful,  but  he  was  saved,  and  more  than  saved, 
by  his  style  and  his  art.  He  was  a  particularly  culti- 
vated, musicianly  man  whose  dignity  of  carriage  and 
elegance  of  manner  could  easily  make  people  forget  a 
certain  ungrateful  quality  in  his  voice.  It  was  Faure 
who  had  the  brains  and  perseverance  to  learn  how  to 
sing  a  particular  note  from  a  really  bad  singer.  The 
bad  singer  had  only  one  good  note  in  his  voice  and 
that  happened  to  be  the  worst  one  in  Faure's.  So, 
night  after  night,  the  great  artist  went  to  hear  and  to 
study  the  inferior  one  to  try  and  learn  how  he  got 
that  note.  And  he  succeeded,  too.  This  is  a  fair 
sample  of  his  careful  and  finished  way  of  doing  any- 


148  .A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

thing.  He  was  a  big  artist,  and  to  big  artists,  espe- 
cially in  singing,  music  is  almost  mathematical  in  its 
exactness. 

Adelina  Patti,  who  had  also  left  London  for  the 
winter,  was  singing  at  the  Italiens  in  Paris.  I  went 
to  hear  her  give  an  indifferent  performance  of  Ernani. 
It  was  never  one  of  her  advantageous  roles.  Adelina 
had  a  most  extraordinary  charm  and  a  great  power 
over  men  of  very  diverse  sorts.  De  Caux,  Nicolini, 
Maurice  Strakosch,  who  married  Adelina's  sister 
Amelia,  all  adored  her  and  felt  that  whatever  she  did 
must  be  right  because  she  did  it.  Nicolini,  who  had 
been  a  star  tenor  singing  all  over  Italy  before  she 
captured  him,  was  willing  to  forget  that  he  ever  had  a 
wife  or  children.  Maurice  was  for  years  her  "manager 
and  representative, "  and  as  such  put  up  with  incredible 
complexities  in  the  situation.  There  is  a  long  and  lurid 
tale  about  Nicolini's  wife  appearing  in  Italy  when 
Nicolini,  Maurice,  and  Adelina  were  all  there.  The 
story  ended  with  Nicolini  being  kicked  downstairs 
and  the  press  commented  upon  the  episode  with  an 
apt  couplet  from  Schiller  to  the  effect  that  "life  is 
hard,  but  merry  is  art!" 

The  names  of  Paris  and  of  Maurice  Strakosch  in 
conjunction  conjure  up  the  thought  of  Napoleon  III, 
who,  in  his  young  days  of  exile,  used  to  be  very  intimate 
with  Maurice.  Louis  Napoleon,  after  he  had  escaped 
from  the  fortress  of  Ham,  spent  some  time  in  London, 
and  he  and  Maurice  frequently  lunched  or  dined 
together.  By  the  way,  some  years  later,  at  a  dinner 
at  the  McHenrys'  in  Holland  Park,  I  was  told  by 
Chevalier  Wyckoff  that  it  was  he  who  rescued  Napoleon 
from  the  prison  of  Ham  by  smuggling  clothes  in  to  him 
and  by  having  a  boat  waiting  for  him.  Maurice  used 


Across  tHe  CHannel  149 

to  tell  of  one  rather  amusing  incident  that  occurred 
during  the  London  period.  Louis  Napoleon's  dress 
clothes  were  usually  in  pawn,  and  one  night  when  he 
wanted  to  go  to  some  party,  he  presented  himself  at 
Maurice's  rooms  to  borrow  his.  Maurice  was  out; 
but  nevertheless  Louis  Napoleon  took  the  dress  clothes 
anyway,  adding  all  of  Maurice's  orders  and  decorations. 
When  he  was  decked  out  to  his  satisfaction  he  went  to 
the  party.  Shortly  after,  in  came  Maurice,  to  dress 
for  the  same  party,  and  called  to  his  valet  to  bring  him 
his  evening  clothes. 

"Mr.  Bonaparte's  got  'em  on,  sir,"  said  the  man: 
and  Maurice  stayed  at  home! 

Napoleon  III  was  a  man  of  many  weaknesses.  Yet 
he  kept  his  promises  and  remembered  his  friends — 
when  he  could.  As  soon  as  he  became  Emperor  he 
sent  for  Maurice  Strakosch  and  offered  him  the  manage- 
ment of  the  Italiens;  but  Maurice  declined  the  honour. 
He  was  too  busy  "representing"  Patti  in  those  days 
to  care  for  any  other  engagement.  He  did  give 
singing  lessons  to  the  Empress  Eugenie  however, 
and  was  always  on  good  terms  with  her  and  with  the 
Emperor. 

When  I  was  in  Paris  in  '68  Napoleon  and  Eugenie 
were  in  power  at  the  Tuileries  and  day  after  day  I  saw 
them  driving  behind  their  splendid  horses.  Paris  was 
extremely  gay  and  yet  somewhat  ominous,  for  there 
was  a  wide-spread  feeling  that  clouds  were  gathering 
about  the  throne.  When  thinking  of  that  period  I 
sometimes  quote  to  myself  Owen  Meredith's  poem, 
Aux  Italiens, 

At  Paris  it  was  at  the  opera  there  .  .  . 


150  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

The  Emperor  there  in  his  box  of  state 
Looked  grave,  as  if  he  had  just  then  seen 

The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city  gate, 
Where  his  eagles  in  bronze  had  been. 

The  Tuileries  court  was  a  very  brilliant  one  and  we 
were  accustomed  to  splendid  costumes  and  gorgeous 
turnouts  in  the  Bois,  but  one  day  I  came  home  with 
a  particularly  excited  description  of  the  "foreign  prin- 
cess" I  had  seen.  Her  clothes,  her  horses  (she  drove 
postilion),  her  carriage,  her  liveries,  her  servants,  all, 
to  my  innocent  and  still  ignorant  mind,  proclaimed  her 
some  distinguished  visiting  royalty.  How  chagrined 
I  was  and  how  I  was  laughed  at  when  my  "princess" 
turned  out  to  be  one  of  the  best  known  demi-mondaines 
in  Paris!  Even  then  it  was  difficult  to  tell  the  two 
mondes  apart. 

A  unique  character  in  Paris  was  Dr.  Evans,  dentist 
to  the  Emperor  and  Empress.  He  was  an  American 
and  a  witty,  talented  man.  I  remember  hearing  him 
laughingly  boast : 

"I  have  looked  down  the  mouth  of  every  crowned 
head  of  Europe!" 

When  disaster  overtook  the  Bonapartes,  he  proved 
that  he  could  serve  crowned  heads  in  other  ways 
besides  filling  their  teeth.  It  was  he  who  helped  the 
Empress  to  escape,  and  the  fact  made  him  an  exile 
from  Paris.  He  came  to  see  me  in  London  years  after- 
wards and  told  me  something  of  that  dark  and  dramatic 
time  of  flight.  He  felt  very  homesick  for  Paris,  which 
had  been  his  home  for  so  long,  but  the  dear  man  was 
as  merry  and  charming  as  ever. 

We  spent  in  all  only  a  short  time  in  Paris.  Two 
months  were  taken  out  of  the  middle  of  that  winter 


Across  tKe  GHannel  151 

for  travelling  on  the  Continent,  after  which  we  returned 
to  the  French  city  for  March.  When  we  first  started 
from  Paris  on  our  trip  we  were  headed  for  Nice.  It 
was  Christmas  Day,  and  cold  as  charity.  Why  did 
we  choose  that  day  of  all  others  on  which  to  begin  a 
journey?  Our  Christmas  dinner  consisted  of  cold  soup 
swallowed  at  a  station.  Christmas! — I  could  have 
wept ! 


CHAPTER  XV 

MY  FIRST  HOLIDAY  ON  THE  CONTINENT 

IT  seemed  very  odd  to  be  really  idle.  From  the 
time  I  was  thirteen  I  had  been  working  and  study- 
ing so  systematically  that  to  get  the  habit  of  leisure 
was  like  learning  a  new  and  a  difficult  lesson.  It 
took  time,  for  one  thing,  to  find  out  how  to  relax; 
nervous  persons  never  acquire  this  art  naturally  nor 
possess  it  instinctively.  It  is  with  them  the  artificial 
product  of  painful  experience.  All  my  life  I  had  been 
expending  energy  at  top  pressure  and  building  it  up 
again  as  fast  as  I  could  instead  of  sometimes  letting  it 
lie  fallow  for  a  bit.  When  I  became  exhausted  my 
mother  would  speedily  make  strong  broths  with  rice 
and  meat  and  vegetables  and  anything  else  that  she 
considered  nourishing  to  stimulate  my  jaded  vitality; 
then  I  would  go  at  my  work  again  harder  than  ever. 
When  I  had  finished  one  thing  I  plunged,  nerves, 
body,  and  brain,  into  another.  To  be  an  artist  is  bad 
enough;  but  to  be  an  American  artist — !  To  the 
temperamental  excitability  and  intensity  is  added  the 
racial  nervousness;  and  lucky  are  such  if  they  do  not 
go  up  in  a  final  smoke  of  over-energised  effort.  When 
I  was  singing  I  was  always  in  a  fever  before  the  curtain 
rose.  All  the  day  before  I  was  restless  to  the  point  of 
desperation.  Instead  of  letting  myself  go  and  becom- 
ing comfortably  limp  so  that  I  might  conserve  my 

152 


First  Holiday  on  tKe  Continent         153 

strength  for  the  performance  itself,  I  would  cast  about 
for  a  hundred  secondary  ways  in  which  to  waste  my 
nervous  force.  I  was  nearly  as  bad  as  the  Viennese 
prima  donna,  Marie  Willt.  The  story  is  told  of  her 
that  a  reporter  from  a  Vienna  newspaper  went  to  inter- 
view her  the  afternoon  before  she  was  to  sing  in  II 
Travatore  at  the  Royal  Opera  and  enquired  of  the 
scrubwoman  in  the  hall  where  he  could  find  Frau 
Willt. 

"Here,"  responded  the  scrubwoman,  sitting  up  to 
eye  him  calmly. 

When  the  young  man  expressed  surprise  and  in- 
credulity she  explained,  as  she  continued  to  mop  the 
soapy  water,  that  she  invariably  scrubbed  the  floor 
the  day  she  was  going  to  sing.  "It  keeps  me  busy," 
she  concluded  sententiously. 

Think  of  the  force  that  went  into  that  scrubbing- 
brush  which  might  have  gone  into  the  part  of  Leo- 
nora! But  it  is  not  for  me  to  find  fault  with  such  a 
course  of  action  because  I  followed  a  very  similar  one. 
If  I  did  not  exactly  scrub  floors,  I  did,  somehow, 
contrive  to  find  other  equally  adequate  ways  of  dissi- 
pating my  strength  before  I  sang.  Yet  here  I  was, 
actually  taking  a  holiday,  with  no  chance  at  all  to  work 
even  if  I  wanted  to! 

When  we  arrived  in  Nice  the  lemons  and  oranges  on 
the  trees  and  a  sky  as  blue  as  painted  china  made  the 
place  seem  to  me  somewhat  unnatural,  like  a  stage 
setting.  Not  yet  having  learned  my  lesson  of  relaxa- 
tion, I  soon  became  restless  and  wanted  to  be  again  on 
the  move.  Nevertheless  we  stayed  there  for  nearly  a 
month.  My  mother  seemed  to  like  it.  She  made 
many  friends  and  spent  hours  every  day  painting  little 
pictures — quite  dear  little  pictures  they  were — of  the 


154  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

bright  coloured  wild  flowers  that  grew  roundabout. 
But  possibly  a  few  extracts  from  the  diary  kept  by 
my  mother  of  this  visit  will  not  be  out  of  place  here. 
The  capital  letters  and  italics  are  hers. 

Dec.  25 — Christmas  morning.  Sun  shone  for  two  hours. 
Left  for  Nice.  Arrived  at  5  P.M.  A  very  cold  night. 
Cars  warmed  by  zink  hollow  planks  [boxes]  filled  with 
Boiling  water  which  are  replaced  every  three  hours  at  the 
different  stations.  Notwithstanding  shawls  and  wraps 
suffered  with  the  cold.  Nothing  to  eat  until  we  arrived 
at  twelve  at  Marseilles,  where  [we]  got  a  poor,  cold  soup 
and  miserable  cup  of  tea.  Arrived  at  the  Hotel  Luxem- 
bourg in  Nice  at  6.30  P.M.  The  city  and  hotels  crowded 
with  people  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  Rheumatic  people 
rush  here  to  get  into  the  sunshine — a  thing  seldom  seen  in 
Paris  or  London  in  winter.  Nice  is  simply  a  watering- 
place  without  the  water,  unless  one  means  the  Sea  Mediter- 
ranean which  almost  rushes  into  the  Halls  of  the  Hotels. 
All  languages  are  here  spoken ;  therefore  no  trouble  for  any 
nation  to  obtain  what  it  desires.  The  streets  are  pulver- 
ised magnesia.  Everybody  looks  after  walking  as  though 
they  had  been  to  mill  "turning  hopper." 

In  our  promenade  [to-day,  Dec.  27]  we  meet  in  less  than 
twenty  minutes  as  many  different  nationalities,  or  repre- 
sentatives of  each.  Poor  in  soil,  poor  in  colour,  poor  in 
taste  is  Nice.  The  Hotels  compose  the  City.  Roses 
bloom  by  the  roadsides  in  abundance.  The  gardens  of  the 
Hotels  are  yellow  with  Oranges.  Palm  trees  line  the  streets, 
none  of  which  have  shade  trees  that  ever  grow  enough  to 
shade  but  one  person  at  a  time — no  soil — no  vigour — sun 
does  all  the  maturing.  Things  ripen  from  necessity,  not 
from  the  soil. 

Saturday  28 — Clear  beautiful  morning.  Beach  covered 
with  promenaders.  At  twelve  Louise  and  I  took  a  long 
walk  towards  Villa  Franca — sun  very  hot — met  Richard 
Palmer  who  had  just  arrived.  Enjoyed  the  morning; 


First   Holiday  on  tKe  Continent         155 

were  refreshed  by  our  walk.  Mr.  Stebbins  and  Charlie 
called.  Drive  at  5.  Evening  had  a  light  wood  fire  upon 
the  hearth,  making  rooms  and  hearts  cheerful  in  direct 
opposition  to  the  roaring  of  the  wild  sea  at  our  very  feet. 
Proprietor  of  Hotel  sent  up  his  Piano  for  Louise.  Basket 
Phaetons — 2  ponies — are  hired  here  for  one  franc  an  hour — 
fine  woods  but  dusty. 

sgth. — Sunday — Magnificent  morning.  The  sea  smooth 
as  glass.  Women  line  the  beach  spreading  clothes  to  bleach. 
There  is  a  short  diluted  Season  of  Italian  Opera  here. 
Ernani  was  announced  for  last  evening.  There  is  no  odor 
from  the  Mediterranean,  no  sea  weeds,  no  shells,  a  perfectly 
clean  barren  beach.  I  don't  believe  it  is  even  salt.  Shall 
go  and  sip  to  satisfy  Yankee  curiosity.  There  are  two 
Irish  heiresses  here  whose  combined  weight  in  gold  is  9000 
Ibs.,  and  the  way  the  nobs  and  snobs  tiptoe,  bow,  and 
scrape  is  something  to  behold.  They  are  always  dressed 
alike.  We  are  cold  enough  to  have  a  small  wood  fire 
morning  and  evening  in  a  very  primitive  style  fireplace  18 
inches  square.  Handirons  made  of  2  cast  iron  virgins' 
heads  and  busts.  Bellows  thrown  in. 

One  P.M. — Took  a  double  Pony  Basket  Phaeton,  Louise 
and  I  on  the  front  seat,  she  driving  a  grey  and  bay  pony. 
Drove  to  Villa  Franca  where  the  American  fleet  is  anchored. 
Saw  the  old  flag  once  more,  which  brought  home  most 
vividly  to  my  heart  and  roused  the  old  longing  for  the  dear 
old  spot. 

joth.  No  letters.  No  news  of  trunks.  The  Monoto- 
nous sea  singing  Hush  at  measured  intervals,  not  one  wave 
even  an  inch  higher  than  another.  This  cannot  be  a  real 
sea,  the  Mediterranean,  or  it  -would  sometime  change  its  tone. 
Yesterday  rode  through  the  old  Italian  part  of  the  City. 
Houses  6  or  7  stories  high.  Streets  just  wide  enough  for  a 
donkey  cart  to  get  through.  Never  can  pass  each  other. 
One  has  to  back  out. 

Tuesday  ji.  Took  our  usual  walk.  Listened  to  the 
band  in  the  Public  Gardens.  This  is  a  poor,  barren  country. 


156  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

I  believe  the  plates  are  licked  by  the  inhabitants  instead  of 
the  dogs.  This  place  is  too  poor  for  them.  The  only  good 
conditioned  looking  people  here  are  the  priests.  They  are 
bursting  with  inward  satisfaction  and  joy.  When  in  Paris 
last  October  we  heard  of  a  most  wonderful  pair  of  earrings 
that  had  been  presented  to  Adelina  Patti  by  a  Gent  who 
glided  under  the  name  of  Khalil  Bey,  worth  Millions! 
When  in  Paris  again  in  December  there  was  a  great  stir 
about  the  Private  Picture  Gallery  of  a  very  wealthy  man 
who  had  met  with  severe  and  great  losses  at  the  gaming 
table.  Our  friends  tried  to  obtain  admission  for  us  to  see 
them,  but  through  some  slip  we  failed.  Upon  our  arrival 
in  Nice,  one  day  there  was  great  confusion  and  agitation 
among  the  Eager.  Servants  were  standing  in  corners  and 
evidence  of  something  was  very  vivid.  Finally  the  mystery 
was  solved.  And  we  learned  that  a  great  Prince  had 
arrived  from  St.  Petersburg.  A  Turk!  Who  was  sharing 
our  fate  (the  order  of  things  is  all  reversed  in  Nice.  You 
commence  life  there  by  beginning  at  the  top  and  working 
your  way  down)  and  taken  rooms  on  the  6th  floor,  accom- 
panied by  2  servants,  one  especially  to  take  care  of  the  Pipe. 
His  name  is  Khalil  Bey — about  50  years  old — a  hard, 
Chinese,  cast-iron  face  run  when  the  iron  was  very  hot — 
sinking  well  into  the  mould — one  eye  almost  blind — short 
small  feet — he  seemed  to  commence  to  grow  at  the  feet 
and  grew  bigger  and  wider  as  he  went  up. 

jrd.  He  moves  in  the  best  "society"  over  here — has 
his  Box  at  the  Opera — tells  frankly  his  losses  at  cards — so 
many  million  francs — is  a  man  of  influence  even  among  a  cer- 
tain class  and  that  far  above  mediocre.  Met  him  at  an  even- 
ing entertainment.  Found  him  a  great  admirer  of  Patti  in 
certain  roles — very  good  judgment  upon  musical  matters 
in  general — and  a  professed  Gambler. 

4th.  Rained  all  day.  A  lost  day  to  comfort  outside 
and  in. 

$th.  Another  day  of  the  same  sort.  Weary  with  looking 
at  the  sea. 


First  Holiday  on  tKe  Continent         157 

6th.     Clearing.     Sunshine  at  intervals. 

?th.  Mr.  Kinney  called  in  afternoon.  Conversation 
related  to  Americans  in  Europe.  Came  to  the  conclusion 
that  as  a  general  rule  none  but  the  class  denominated 

"  fast "  come  to  Europe  and  like  it.  Mr. said  he  would 

give  any  American  young  gentleman  or  lady  just  18  months 
in  European  society  to  lose  all  refinement  and  all  moral 
principle,  young  ladies  in  particular.  The  moral  principle 
cannot  be  strong  when  one  is  laughed  at  for  blushing! 

8th.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  L came  over  in  the  evening.  Sat 

two  hours.  Discussed  Europe  generally  and  decided* 
America  was  the  only  place  for  decent  people  to  live  in. 
Death  is  all  over  Europe,  an  epidemic  that  has  no  cure, 
Death  of  all  moral  responsibility.  Death  of  ambition  in 
the  way  of  virtue.  Death  of  all  comforts  of  life.  The  last 
man  that  dies  will  be  carried  from  the  card  table. 

In  my  own  recollection  of  Nice  the  two  men  princi- 
pally mentioned  in  my  mother's  diary,  Khalil  Bey  and 
Admiral  Farragut,  stand  out  strikingly.  Khalil  Bey 
was  a  fabulously  rich  Turk  who  spent  his  life  wandering 
luxuriously  over  the  face  of  the  earth  with  a  huge 
retinue  of  retainers  nearly  as  picturesque  as  he  was. 
He  was  a  big,  dark,  murderous  looking  creature,  not 
unattractive  in  a  sinister,  strange,  and  piratical  way. 
He  had  a  wild  and  lurid  record  and  was  especially 
notorious  for  his  reckless  gambling,  at  which  his  luck 
was  said  to  be  miraculous.  He  was  an  opera  enthu- 
siast, having  heard  it  in  every  city  in  Europe,  and  was 
one  of  Adelina's  admirers.  My  mother  disliked  him 
exceedingly,  declaring  he  was  like  a  big  snake.  But 
my  mother  never  had  any  tolerance  for  foreign  noble- 
men. There  were  many  of  them  at  Nice  and  her 
comments  were  caustic  and  often  apt.  I  remember  her 
casual  summing  up  of  the  Marquis  de  Talleyrand  (the 


158  An  American  Prime  Donna 

particular  friend  of  Mrs.  Stevens,  an  American  woman 
from  Hoboken  whom  he  afterwards  married)  as  "a 
young  man  belonging  to  some  goose  pond  or  other!" 

Admiral  Farragut,  who  was  in  the  harbour  with  his 
flagship  the  Hartford  and  several  other  American  battle- 
ships, was  greatly  feted,  being  just  then  a  great  hero 
of  the  war.  The  United  States  Consul  gave  a  reception 
for  him  which  he  explained  in  advance  was  to  be 
"characteristically  American."  The  only  noticeable 
thing  about  the  entertainment  seemed  to  be  the  quan- 
tity and  variety  of  drinkables  that  were  unceasingly 
served  by  swift  and  persuasive  waiters.  The  Conti- 
nentals must  have  had  a  startling  impression  of  Ameri- 
can thirst !  The  Admiral  himself,  however,  was  hardly 
given  time  to  swallow  anything  at  all,  people  were  so 
anxious  to  ask  him  questions  and  to  shake  hands. 

The  Stebbinses  and  McHenrys  joined  us  when  we 
had  been  in  Nice  only  a  short  time,  and,  after  a  little 
stay  there  together,  we  went  on  by  way  of  Genoa  and 
the  Corniche  Road  to  Pisa,  and  thence  to  Florence. 
At  Florence  we  met  the  Admiral  again  and  found  him 
more  charming  the  better  we  knew  him.  In  Florence, 
too,  we  had  several  glimpses  of  the  Grisi  family, 
Madame  and  her  three  daughters.  Grisi  was,  I  think, 
a  striking  example  of  a  singer  being  born  and  not 
made.  When  she  sang  Adalgisa  in  Norma  in  Milan, 
she  made  a  sudden  and  overwhelming  hit.  Next  day 
everyone  was  rushing  about  demanding,  "Who  was  her 
teacher?  Who  gave  her  this  wonderful  style  and 
tone?"  Grisi  herself  was  asked  about  it  and  she 
gave  the  names  of  several  teachers  under  whom  she 
had  worked.  But,  needless  to  say,  another  Grisi  was 
never  made.  In  her  case  it  did  n't  happen  to  be  the 
teacher.  Often  the  credit  is  given  to  the  master  when 


First  Holiday  on  tHe  Continent          159 

it  really  belongs  to  the  pupil,  or,  rather,  to  le  bon  Dieu 
who  made  the  vocal  chords  in  the  first  place.  For, 
however  we  may  agree  or  disagree  about  fundamental 
requirements  for  an  artist — breath  control,  voice  plac- 
ing, tone  colour,  interpretation, — the  simple  fact  re- 
mains that  the  one  great  essential  for  a  singer  is  a 
voice !  One  little  story  that  I  recall  of  Grisi  interested 
me.  It  was  said  that,  when  she  was  growing  old  and 
severe  exertion  told  on  her,  she  always,  after  her  fall  as 
Lucretia  Borgia,  had  a  glass  of  beer  come  up  through 
the  floor  to  her  and  would  drink  it  as  she  lay  there  with 
her  back  half  turned  to  the  audience.  This  is  what 
was  said;  and  it  seemed  to  me  like  a  very  good  scheme. 

The  director  of  the  railway  between  Rome  and 
Naples,  M.  De  la  Haute,  put  his  private  car  at  our 
disposal.  In  the  present  era  of  cars  equipped  with 
baths  and  barber  shops,  libraries  and  writing  rooms, 
it  would  seem  primitive,  but  it  was  quite  the  last 
word  in  the  railroad  luxury  of  that  period.  I  was 
charmed  with  the  Italian  scenery  as  we  steamed 
through  it  and,  above  all,  with  the  highly  pictorial 
peasants  that  we  passed.  Their  clothes,  of  quaint  cut 
and  vivid  hues,  were  exactly  like  stage  costumes. 

"Why,"  I  exclaimed  excitedly,  peering  from  the  car 
window,  "they  are  all  just  out  of  scenes  from  Fra 
Diavolo!" 

We  were,  indeed,  going  through  the  mountains  of  the 
Fra  Diavolo  country,  where  the  inhabitants  lived  in 
continual  fear  of  the  bands  of  brigands  that  infested 
the  mountains.  Zerlina  and  Fra  Diavolo  were  literally 
in  their  midst. 

M.  De  la  Haute  gave  a  delightful  breakfast  for  us 
on  one  of  the  terraces  outside  Naples  with  the  turquoise 
blue  bay  beneath,  the  marvellous  Italian  sky  overhead, 


160  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

and  Vesuvius  before  us.  Albert  Bierstadt,  the  Ameri- 
can artist,  was  of  the  company,  and  afterwards  turned 
up  in  Rome,  whither  we  went  next.  When  we  made 
the  ascent  of  Vesuvius,  my  mother  recounts  in  her 
diary:  "There  must  have  been  at  least  a  hundred 
Italian  devils  jumping  about  and  screaming  to  take  us 
up.  It  seemed  as  if  they  must  have  just  jumped  out 
of  the  burning  brimstone. " 

In  Rome  we  dined  with  Charlotte  Cushman.  This 
was,  of  course,  some  years  before  her  death  and  she 
was  not  yet  ravaged  by  her  tragic  illness.  She  was 
very  full  of  anecdotes  of  her  friends,  the  Carlyles, 
Tennyson,  and  others,  whom  she  had  just  left  in  Eng- 
land. To  our  little  party  was  added  Emma  Stebbins, 
who  had  been  doing  famously  in  sculpture,  and,  also, 
Harriet  Hosmer,  the  artist,  as  well  as  one  or  two  clever 
men.  It  was  Carnival  Week,  and  so  I  had  my  first 
glimpse  of  a  true  Continental  festa.  I  had  never 
before  seen  any  real  Latin  merriment.  The  Anglo- 
Saxon  variety  is  apt  to  be  heavy,  rough,  or  vulgar. 
But  those  fascinating  people  had  the  wonderful  power 
of  being  genuinely  and  innocently  gay.  They  became 
like  happy  children  at  play.  They  threw  confetti, 
sang  and  laughed,  and  tossed  flowers  about.  It  was  a 
veritable  lesson  in  joy  to  us  more  sober  and  common- 
place Americans  who  looked  on. 

While  I  was  in  Rome  I  was  presented  to  the  Pope, 
Pius  IX,  a  most  lovely  and  genial  personality  with  a 
delightful  atmosphere  about  him.  I  was  told  that  he 
had  very  much  wanted  to  be  made  Pope  and  had 
played  the  invalid  so  that  the  Cardinals  would  not 
think  it  was  very  important  whether  they  elected  him 
or  not;  so  that  they  could  say  (as  they  did  say),  "Let 
us  elect  him: — he'll  die  anyhow!"  He  was  duly 


First  Holiday  on  tHe  Continent         161 

elected  and,  just  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  Pontifical 
Chair,  his  health  became  miraculously  restored !  When 
we  were  presented  I  could  not  help  being  amused  at  the 
extraordinary  articles  brought  by  people  for  the  good 
man  to  bless.  One  woman  had  a  pair  of  marble  hands. 
Another  offered  the  Pontiff  a  photograph  of  himself; 
and  his  Holiness  had  evident  difficulty  in  keeping  a 
straight  face  as  he  explained  to  her  that  really  he 
could  not  bless  a  likeness  of  himself.  Etiquette  at 
these  Vatican  receptions  is  very  strict  as  to  what  one 
must  wear,  what  one  must  do,  and  where  one  must 
stand.  Sebasti,  of  Sebasti  e  Reali,  the  famous  Roman 
bankers,  has  the  tale  to  tell  of  a  Hebrew  millionaire 
from  America  who  contrived  to  secure  an  invitation 
to  one  of  these  select  audiences  and,  not  being  able  to 
see  the  Pope  clearly  on  account  of  the  crowd,  climbed 
upon  a  chair  to  get  a  better  view.  In  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  a  dozen  attendants  were  after  him,  whispering 
harshly,  "Giu!  Giu!  Giu!"  ("Get  down!  Get  down!  Get 
down!")  and  the  Israelite  climbed  down  exclaiming  in 
crestfallen  accents:  "How  did  you  know  it?" 

I  have  never  been  presented  to  the  present  Pope,  but 
I  gather  from  my  friends  in  Rome  that  his  administra- 
tion is,  as  usual,  a  rather  complicated  affair.  The 
ruling  power  is  Cardinal  Rampolla,  the  Mephisto  of  the 
Church,  for  whom  a  distinguished  Marchesa  has  a 
salon  and  entertains,  so  that,  in  this  way,  he  can  meet 
people  on  neutral  ground. 

On  our  return  trip  we  crossed  Mont  Cenis  by 
diligence.  From  Lombardy,  with  the  smell  of  orange 
flowers  all  about  us,  we  mounted  up  and  up  until  the 
green  growing  things  became  fewer  and  frailer,  and  the 
air  chillier  and  more  ratified.  Between  six  and  seven 
thousand  feet  up  we  struck  snow  and  changed  to  a 


162  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

sleigh.  We  made  the  whole  trip  in  eleven  hours — 
a  record  in  those  days.  Think  of  it,  you  modern 
tourists  who  cross  Mont  Cenis  in  three!  But  you 
will  do  well  to  envy  us  our  diligence  and  sleigh  just  the 
same,  for  you — oh,  horrors! — have  to  do  it  through  a 
tunnel  instead  of  over  a  mountain  pass!  We  felt 
quite  adventurous,  for  it  was  generally  considered  a 
rather  hazardous  undertaking.  By  March  first  we 
were  back  again  in  Paris  and,  before  the  end  of  the 
month,  Mr.  Jarrett  and  Arditi  joined  us  with  my 
renewed  contract  with  Colonel  Mapleson. 

It  seemed  to  me  a  very  short  period  before  it  was 
time  for  me  to  go  back  to  Drury  Lane  for  the  real 
London  season.  Spring  had  come  and  Mapleson  was 
ready  to  make  a  record  opera  season;  so  we  said  good- 
bye to  our  friends  in  Paris  and  turned  once  more 
toward  England. 


M 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FELLOW-ARTISTS 

Y  mother's  diary  reads  as  follows: 


March  25.  Left  Paris  for  London  accompanied  by 
Arditi  and  Mr.  Jarrett.  Came  by  Dover  and  Calais. 
Very  sick.  Had  a  band  on  the  boat  to  entice  the  passengers 
into  the  idea  that  everything  was  lovely  and  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  seasickness.  Arrived  in  London  at  ten 
minutes  before  six. 

28.  Went  out  house-hunting.     Rooms  too  small. 

29.  House-hunting.     Dirty  houses.     A  vast  difference 
between  American  and  English  housekeeping.     Could  n't 
stand  it.     Visited  ten.     Col.  Chandler  came  in  the  evening. 
Miss  Jarrett  went  with  us. 

jo.  Went  again.  Saw  a  highfalutin  Lady  who  said 
she  wanted  to  get  a  fancy  price  for  her  house.  Could  n't 
see  it. 

April  1st.  Miss  Jarrett,  Lou  and  I  started  again  and 
had  about  given  up  the  ship  when  Louise  discovered  a 
house  with  "to  let"  on  it.  So  we  ventured  in  without 
cards.  Lovely!  Neat  and  nice.  Beautiful  large  garden, 
lawn,  etc.  We  were  taken  to  see  the  Agent  who  had  it  in 
charge.  When  we  got  outside  we  3  embraced  each  other 
and  I  screamed  with  joy.  She  (the  Landlady)  was  the  first 
to  have  a  house  "to  let "  that  was  not  painted  and  powdered 
an  inch  thick. 

2.  Rehearsal  of  Traviata  for  the  4th.  Three  hours  long. 
Bettini,  Santley,  Foley  and  "Miss  Kellogg." 

j.     Stage  rehearsal. 

163 


164  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

4.  First  appearance  in  the  regular  season  of  Miss 
Kellogg  in  Traviata.  Prince  of  Wales  came  down  end  of 
2nd  act  and  congratulated  her  warmly.  Also  brought 
the  warmest  congratulations  from  the  Princess — splendid — 
called  out  three  times — received  8  bouquets.  Forgot  pow- 
der— sent  Annie  home — too  late — hurried,  daubed,  nervous, 
out  of  breath.  Could  n't  get  champagne  opened  quick 
enough — rushed  and  tore — delayed  orchestra  5  minutes — 
got  on  all  right — at  last — went  off  splendidly.  Miss 
Jarrett,  Mr.  Jarrett,  Arditi,  Mr.  Bennett  of  the  Press 
[critic  of  The  Daily  Telegraph]  came  and  congratulated 
Louise.  The  Prince  of  Wales  was  very  kind — said  he 
remembered  the  hospitality  of  the  Americans  to  him  years 
agone.  [Louise]  Had  a  new  ball  room  dress — all  white 
with  red  camilias. 

This  somewhat  incoherent  record  as  jotted  down  by 
my  mother  is  sketchy  but  true  in  spirit.  Never  in  my 
life,  before  or  since,  was  I  ever  so  nervous  as  at  our 
opening  performance  in  London  of  Traviata;  no,  not 
even  had  my  American  debut  tried  me  so  sorely.  Every- 
thing in  the  world  went  wrong  that  could  go  wrong  on 
this  occasion.  I  forgot  my  powder  and  the  skirt  of  my 
dress,  and  Annie,  my  maid,  had  to  rush  home  in  a 
cab  to  get  them.  I  tore  my  costume  while  making  my 
first  entrance  and  had  to  play  the  entire  act  with  a 
streamer  of  silk  dangling  at  my  feet.  I  went  on  half 
made  up,  daubed,  nervous,  out  of  breath.  Never  was 
I  in  such  a  state  of  nerves.  But  to  my  astonishment  I 
made  a  very  big  success.  There  was  a  burst  of  applause 
after  the  first  act  and  I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears. 
It  struck  me  as  most  extraordinary  that  what  I  con- 
sidered so  unsatisfactory  should  please  the  house. 
Several  of  the  artists  singing  with  me  came  to  me 
during  the  evening  much  upset. 


Fellow-  Artists  165 

"Don't  you  know  why  everything  on  the  stage  has 
been  going  so  badly  to-night?"  they  said.  "We  Ve  a 
jettatura  in  front!" 

Madame  Erminie  Rudersdorf ,  the  mother  of  Richard 
Mansfield,  was  in  one  of  the  boxes;  and  she  was  gener- 
ally believed  to  have  the  Evil  Eye.  The  Italian 
singers  took  it  very  seriously  indeed  and  made  horns 
all  through  the  opera  (that  is,  kept  their  fingers  crossed) 
to  ward  off  the  satanic  influence!  Madame  Ruders- 
dorf was  a  tall,  heavy,  and  swarthy  Russian  with 
ominously  brilliant  eyes ;  and  one  of  the  most  command- 
ing personalities  I  ever  came  in  contact  with.  Although 
she  had  a  dangerously  bad  temper,  I  never  saw  any 
evidences  of  it,  nor  of  the  jettatura  either.  She  came 
that  night  and  congratulated  me: — and  it  meant 
something  from  her. 

My  professional  vocation  has  brought  me  up  against 
almost  every  conceivable  superstition,  from  Brignoli's 
stuffed  deer's  head  to  the  more  commonplace  fetish 
against  thirteen  as  a  number.  But  I  never  saw  any 
one  more  obsessed  by  an  idea  of  this  sort  than  Christine 
Nilsson.  She  actually  would  not  sing  unless  some  one 
"held  her  thumbs"  first.  "Holding  thumbs"  is  quite 
an  ancient  way  of  inviting  good  luck.  One  promises  to 
"hold  one's  thumbs"  for  a  friend  who  is  going  through 
some  ordeal,  like  a  first  night  or  an  operation  for 
appendicitis  or  a  wedding  or  anything  else  desperate. 
Nilsson  was  the  first  person  I  ever  knew  who  practised 
the  charm  the  other  way  about.  Before  she  would 
even  go  on  the  stage  somebody,  if  only  the  stage 
carpenter,  had  to  take  hold  of  her  two  thumbs  and 
press  them.  She  was  convinced  that  the  mystic  rite 
brought  her  good  fortune.  Many  of  the  Italian  artists 
that  I  knew  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  coral  as  a  talis- 


i66  An  American  Prima  Donna 

man  and  always  kept  a  bit  of  it  about  them  to  rub 
"for  luck"  just  before  they  went  on  for  their  part  of 
the  performance.  Somebody  has  told  me  that  Emma 
Trentmi  had  a  queer  individual  superstition:  when 
she  was  singing  for  Hammerstein  she  would  never  go 
on  the  stage  until  he  had  given  her  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar !  Ridiculous  as  all  these  idees  fixes  appear  when 
writing  them  down,  I  am  convinced  that  they  do  help 
some  people.  A  sense  of  confidence  is  a  great,  an 
invaluable  thing,  and  whatever  can  bring  that  about 
must  necessarily,  however  foolish  in  itself,  make  for  a 
measure  of  success.  I  caught  Nilsson's  "holding 
thumbs"  trick  myself  without  ever  believing  in  it, 
and  often  have  done  it  to  people  since  in  a  sort  of 
general  luck- wishing,  friendly  spirit.  The  last  time  I 
was  in  Algiers  I  entered  an  antique  shop  that  I  always 
visit  there  and  found  the  little  woman  who  kept  it 
in  a  somewhat  indisposed  and  depressed  state  of  mind : 
— so  much  so  in  fact  that  when  I  left  I  pinched  her 
thumbs  for  luck.  Not  long  afterwards  I  had  the  sweet- 
est letter  from  her.  "I  cannot  thank  you  enough," 
she  wrote;  "you  did  something — whatever  it  was — 
that  has  brought  me  luck.  I  feel  sure  it  is  all  through 
you!" 

To   return   to   my   mother's   diary  after  our  first 
performance  of  Traviata  in  London : 


Sunday.  Sat  around.  Afternoon  drove  through  Hyde 
Park. 

Monday  6th.  Rehearsal  of  Gazza  Ladra.  I  went  all  over 
to  find  dress  for  Linda — failed. 

Tuesday.  Moved  out  to  48  Grove  End  Road — 8  guineas 
a  week.  Received  check  on  County  Bank  from  Mapleson 
for  £100.  Drew  the  money. 


Fellow- Artists  167 

Wednesday  8th.  Heard  rehearsal  of  Gazza  Ladra.  Re- 
mained in  theatre  till  5.25  P.M.  fitting  costume.  Rode 
home  in  22  minutes. 

Thursday  gth.  Saw  Linda.  Magnificent.  Best  thing. 
Called  out  three  times.  Bouquet — dress — yellow.  Moire 
blue  satin  apron — pink  roses — gay! 

Friday — Good  Friday.  Regulated  house.  In  the  evening 
Don  Giovanni  was  performed.  Louise  wore  her  Barber 
dress — pink  satin  one — made  by  Madame  Vinfolet  in  New 
York — splendid!  Foli  told  me  that  in  the  height  of  the 
Messiah  Season  he  often  made  75  guineas  a  week.  He 
looked  at  his  operatic  engagement  as  secondary. 

Sunday  12.  Louise  received  basket  of  Easter  eggs  with 
a  beautiful  bluebird  over  them  from  Mrs.  McHenry — 

Paris — beautiful — shall  take  it  to  America.  Mrs.  G 

dined  with  us  at  5. 

ijth.  Rehearsal  of  G.  Ladra — 3  hours.  I  took  cold 
waiting  in  cold  room.  No  letters. 

Tuesday  14.  Letters  from  Mary  Gray,  Nell  and 
Leonard  and  Carter.  Pay  day  at  Theatre  but  it  did  n't 

come.  3  hours  rehearsal.  At  4  P.M.  Louise,  Mr.  S and 

I  called  by  appointment  upon  the  Duchess  of  Somerset. 
Met  her  3  nieces  and  the  Belgian  Minister — a  splendid 
affair — tea  was  served  at  5 — went  home — dined  at  6 — went 
to  Covent  Garden  to  hear  Mario  &  Fionetti,  the  latter  said 
to  be  the  best  type  of  Italian  school.  Louise  thought  little 
of  it.  Did  n't  know  whether  to  think  less  of  Davidson's 
judgment  or  more  of  her  own. 


2 1 st.  Green  room  rehearsal  of  Gazza  Ladra.  Don  Gio- 
vanni in  the  evening — fine  house. 

22nd.  Rehearsed  one  act  of  Gazza  Ladra.  Louise  tired 
and  nervous.  Rained.  Santley  rode  part  way  home  with 
us. 

2jrd.  Rigoletto — full  house — Duke  of  Newcastle  brought 
Lord  Duppelin  for  introduction.  Opera  went  off  splendidly. 


168  A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

Check  for  £100.     Saw  the  Godwins — Bryant's  son-in-law. 

24th.  Friday.  Drew  the  money.  Reception  at  the 
Langs. 

2^th.  Louise  went  to  new  Philharmonic  to  rehearsal. 
In  the  evening  went  to  Queen's  Theatre  to  see  Toole  in 
Oliver  Twist — splendid.  Mr.  Santley  went  to  Paris. 

26th.  Sunday.  Dr.  Quinn,  Mr.  Fechter  and  Arditi  called. 
Louise  and  Miss  Jarrett  washed  the  dog!  [This  pet  was 
one  of  the  puppies  of  Titjiens's  tiny  and  beautiful  Pomeran- 
ian and  I  had  it  for  a  long  time  and  adored  it.]  The  3 
Miss  Edwards  called.  Letter  from  Sarah. 

27.  Louise  and  I  go  to  Rehearsal  of  Gazza  Ladra  and 
to  hear  Mr.  Fechter  in  No  Thoroughfare.    He  thinks  more 
of  himself  than  of  the  thoroughfare — good  performance 
though.     Letter  from  George  Farnsworth. 

28.  Clear  and  cold.     Rehearsed  Gazza  Ladra. 

29.  [Louise]    sang    at    Philharmonic — duet    Nozze    di 
Figaro  with  Foli. 

30th.  Long  rehearsal  of  Gazza.  Dined  at  Duchess  of 
Somerset's  at  8  P.M.  Met  many  best  men  of  London. 
Duke  of  Newcastle  took  Louise  in  to  dinner.  Col.  Williams 
took  me.  Duchess  is  an  old  tyrant — sang  Louise  to  death — 
unmerciful — I  despise  her  for  her  selfishness. 

Indeed,  every  minute  of  those  spring  weeks  was 
occupied  and  more  than  occupied.  I  never  was  so 
busy  before  and  never  had  such  a  good  time.  The 
"season"  was  a  delightful  one;  and  certainly  no  one 
had  a  more  varied  part  in  it  than  I.  Thanks  to  the 
Dowager  Duchess  and  our  friends  we  went  out  fre- 
quently; and  I  was  singing  four  and  five  times  a  week 
counting  concerts.  Private  concerts  were  a  great  fad 
that  season  and  I  have  often  sung  at  two  or  three 
different  ones  in  the  same  evening. 

Colonel  Mapleson  was  in  great  feather,  having  three 
prime  donne  at  his  disposal  at  once,  for  Christine 


Fellow-Artists  169 

Nilsson  had  soon  joined  us,  that  curious  mixture  of 
"Scandinavian  calm  and  Parisian  elegance"  as  I  have 
heard  her  described.  No  two  singers  were  ever  less 
alike,  either  physically  or  temperamentally,  than  she 
and  I;  yet,  oddly  enough,  we  over  and  over  again  fol- 
lowed each  other  in  the  same  roles.  Titjiens,  Nilsson, 
and  I  sang  together  a  great  deal  that  season,  not  only 
in  opera  but  also  in  concert.  Our  voices  went  well 
together  and  we  always  got  on  pleasantly.  Madame 
Titjiens  was  no  longer  at  the  zenith  of  her  great  power, 
but  she  was  very  fine  for  all  that.  I  admired  Titjiens 
greatly  as  an  artist  in  spite  of  her  perfunctory  acting. 
Cold  and  stately,  she  was  especially  effective  in  purely 
classic  music,  having  at  her  command  all  its  tradi- 
tions:— Donna  Anna  for  instance,  and  Fidelio  and  the 
Contessa.  I  sang  with  her  in  the  Mozart  operas. 
Particularly  do  I  recall  one  night  when  the  orchestra 
was  under  the  direction  of  Sir  Michael  Costa.  Both 
Titjiens  and  Nilsson  were  singing  with  me,  and  the 
former  had  to  follow  me  in  the  recitative.  Where 
Susanna  gives  the  attacking  note  to  the  Contessa 
Sir  Michael's  'cello  gave  me  the  wrong  chord.  I  per- 
ceived it  instantly,  my  absolute  pitch  serving  me  well, 
but  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do.  I  was  singing  in  Italian, 
which  made  the  problem  even  more  difficult;  but,  as  I 
sang,  my  sixth  sense  was  working  subconsciously.  I 
was  saying  over  and  over  in  my  brain:  "I've  got  to  give 
Titjiens  the  right  note  or  the  whole  thing  will  be  a  mess. 
How  am  I  going  to  do  it?"  I  sang  around  in  circles  until 
I  was  able  to  give  the  Contessa  the  correct  note.  Tit- 
jiens gratefully  caught  it  up  and  all  came  out  well. 
When  the  number  was  over,  both  Titjiens  and  Nilsson 
came  and  congratulated  me  for  what  they  recognised  as  a 
good  piece  of  musicianship.  But  Sir  Michael  was  in  a  rage. 


170  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

"What  do  you  mean,"  he  demanded,  "by  taking 
liberties  with  the  music  like  that?" 

One  cannot  afford  to  antagonise  a  conductor  and  he 
was,  besides,  so  irascible  a  man  that  I  did  not  care  to 
mention  to  him  that  his  'cello  had  been  at  fault.  He 
was  a  most  indifferent  musician  as  well  as  a  narrow, 
obstinate  man,  although  London  considered  him  a  very 
great  leader.  He  only  infuriated  me  the  more  by 
remarking  indulgently,  one  night  not  long  after,  as  if 
overlooking  my  various  artistic  shortcomings:  "Well, 
well, — you're  a  very  pretty  woman  anyway!"  It 
was  his  "anyway"  that  irrevocably  settled  matters 
between  us.  He  disliked  Nilsson  too.  He  declared 
both  in  public  and  in  private  that  her  use  of  her  voice  was 
mere  "charlatanry  and  trickery"  and  not  worthy  to  be 
called  musical.  Nilsson  was  not,  in  fact,  a  good  musician ; 
few  prime  donne  are.  On  one  occasion  she  did  actually 
sing  one  bar  in  advance  of  the  accompaniment  for  ten 
consecutive  measures.  This  is  almost  inconceivable, 
but  she  did  it,  and  Sir  Michael  never  forgave  her. 

Mapleson  was  planning  as  a  tour  de  force  with  which 
to  stun  London  a  series  of  operas  in  which  he  could 
present  all  of  us.  "All-star  casts"  were  rare  in  those 
days.  Most  managers  saved  their  singers  and  doled 
them  out  judiciously,  one  at  a  time,  in  a  very  conserva- 
tive fashion.  But  Mapleson  had  other  notions.  Our 
"all-star"  Mozart  casts  were  the  wonder  of  all  London. 
Think  of  Don  Giovanni  with  Santley  as  the  Don  and 
Titjiens  as  Donna  Anna;  Nilsson  as  Donna  Elvira, 
Rockitanski  of  Vienna  the  Leporello,  and  myself  as 
Zerlina!  Think  of  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro  with  Titjiens  as 
the  Countess,  Nilsson  Cherubino,  Santley  the  Count, 
and  me  as  Susanna!  These  were  casts  unequalled  in 
all  Europe — almost,  I  believe,  in  all  time! 


Fell  ow-  Artists  171 

Gye,  of  Covent  Garden,  declared  that  we  were  killing 
the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  egg  by  putting  all  our 
prime  donne  into  one  opera.  He  said  that  this  made  it 
not  only  impossible  for  rival  houses  to  draw  any 
audiences,  but  that  it  also  cut  off  our  own  noses. 
Nobody  wanted  to  go  on  ordinary  nights  to  hear  operas 
that  had  only  one  prima  donna  in  them  when  they  could 
go  on  star  nights  and  hear  three  at  once.  However, 
Colonel  Mapleson  found  that  the  scheme  paid  and  our 
"triple-cast"  performances  brought  us  most  sensa- 
tional houses.  Personally,  as  I  have  already  said,  I 
never  liked  Mapleson,  and  I  had  many  causes  for 
resentment  in  a  business  way.  I  remember  one  battle 
I  had  with  him  and  the  stage  manager  about  a  dress  I 
was  to  wear  in  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro.  I  do  not  recall 
what  it  was  they  wanted  me  to  wear;  but  I  know  that, 
whatever  it  was,  I  would  not  wear  it.  I  left  in  the 
middle  of  rehearsal,  drove  home  in  an  excited  state  of 
indignation,  and  seized  upon  poor  Colonel  Stebbins, 
always  my  steady  help  in  time  of  trouble.  He  went, 
saw,  fought,  and  conquered,  after  which  the  rehearsals 
went  on  more  or  less  peaceably. 

Undoubtedly  we  had  some  fine  artists  at  Her 
Majesty's,  but  occasionally  Mapleson  missed  a  big 
chance  of  securing  others.  One  day  we  were  putting 
on  our  wraps  after  rehearsal  when  my  mother  and  I 
heard  a  lovely  contralto  voice.  On  inquiry,  we  learned 
that  Colonel  Mapleson  and  Arditi  were  trying  the 
voice  of  a  young  Italian  woman  who  had  come  to 
London  in  search  of  an  engagement.  The  Colonel  and 
the  Director  sat  in  the  orchestra  while  the  young 
woman  sang  an  aria  from  Semiramide.  When  the  trial 
was  over  the  girl  went  away  at  once  and  I  rushed  out  to 
speak  to  Mapleson. 


172  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

"Surely  you  engaged  that  enchanting  singer!"  I 
exclaimed. 

"Indeed  I  did  n't,"  he  replied. 

She  went  directly  to  Gye  at  Covent  Garden,  who 
engaged  her  promptly  and,  when  she  appeared  two 
weeks  later,  she  made  a  sensation.  Her  name  was 
Sofia  Scalchi. 

Besides  the  private  concerts  of  that  season  there 
were  also  plenty  of  public  concerts,  a  particularly 
notable  one  being  a  Handel  Festival  at  the  Crystal 
Palace  on  May  1st,  when  I  sang  Oh,  had  I  Jabot's 
Lyre!  Everything  connected  with  that  occasion  was 
on  a  large  scale.  There  were  seven  thousand  people 
in  the  house,  the  largest  audience  by  far  that  I  had 
ever  sung  to  before.  The  place  was  so  crowded  that 
people  hung  about  the  doors  trying  to  get  in  even  after 
every  seat  was  filled;  and  not  one  person  left  the  hall 
until  after  I  had  finished — a  remarkable  record  in  its 
way!  Some  time  later,  when  I  was  on  my  way  home 
to  America  and  wanted  to  buy  some  antiques,  I  wan- 
dered into  a  little,  odd  Dickens-like  shop  in  Wardour 
Street.  I  wanted  to  have  some  articles  sent  on  approval 
to  meet  me  at  Liverpool,  but  hesitated  to  ask  the  old 
man  in  the  shop  to  take  such  a  risk  without  knowing 
me.  To  my  surprise  he  smiled  at  me  a  kindly,  wrinkled 
smile  and  said,  with  the  prettiest  old-fashioned  bow: 

"  Madame,  you  are  welcome  to  take  any  liberties  you 
will  with  my  entire  stock.  I  heard  you  sing  '  Jubal's 
Lyre.'  I  shall  never  forget  it,  nor  be  able  to  repay 
you  for  the  pleasure  you  gave  me!" 

I  always  felt  this  to  be  one  of  my  sincerest  tributes. 
Perhaps  that  is  partly  why  the  night  of  my  first  Crystal 
Hall  Concert  remains  so  clearly  defined  in  my  memory. 

My  mother's  diary  of  this  period  continues: 


Tell  ow- Artists  173 

May  4.  Mr.  Santley  dined  with  us.  Played  Besique 
in  the  evening.  /  beat. 

5.  Louise  and  I  went  to  St.  James  Hall  rehearsal. 
After  went  to  Theatre.  Learned  Nilsson  did  not  have  as 
good  a  house  2nd  night  as  Louise's  first  one  in  La  Gazza 
Ladra.  Mr.  Arditi  came  to  rehearse  the  waltz. 

6th.  La  Gazza  Ladra.  Full  house — enthusiasm — Duke 
of  Newcastle  came  in. 

7.  Arditi's  rehearsal  for  his  concert  at  his  house  at 

5   P.M. — went — house  full — hot  and    funny.       Mr.  S 

came  in  the  evening — played  one  game  Besique. 

8.  Intended   to  go  to    Haymarket  Theatre   out  Miss 

J had  headache.      Santley  came  in  the  afternoon  to 

practise  Susanna. 

g.  Santley  called.  McHenry  and  Stebbins,  with  another 
Budget  of  disagreeables  from  Mapleson  who,  not  satisfied 
with  cheating  her  [Louise]  out  of  $500.,  deliberately  asked 
her  to  give  him  3  nights  more!  Shall  have  his  money  if 
we  have  to  go  to  law  about  it. 

Monday.  [Louise]  Sang  at  Old  Philharmonic  flute  song 
from  The  Star.  Mr.  Stebbins  went  to  Jarrett  and  told  him 
Miss  Kellogg  would  sing  no  longer  than  the  I5th — her 
engagement  closes  then — but  that  Mapleson  must  pay  her 
what  he  owed  her — that  he  would  have  the  checks  that 
day  or  sue  him. 

Tuesday.  Just  got  the  second  check  of  £150,  showing 
that  a  little  hell  fire  and  brimstone  administered  in  large 
doses  is  a  good  thing.  The  Englishman  has  not  outwitted 
the  Yankee  yet ! 

12.  Louise  sang  Don  Giovanni  —  Titjiens  "Donna 
Anna,"  Santley  "Don  Giovanni,"  Nilsson  "Elvira." 
Crowded  house — seats  sold  at  a  premium — Louise  received 
all  the  honours — everything  encored — 4  bouquets.  Nilsson 
and  Titjiens  were  encored  only  for  the  grand  trio.  The 
applause  on  Batti  Batti  was  something  unequalled. 

jj.  Went  to  photographers.  Miss  Jarrett,  Santley 
and  ourselves  dined  at  Mr.  Stebbins' — went  to  hear  Lucca 


174  An  American   Prima  Donna 

in  Fra  Diavolo — was  delighted — she  was  not  pretty  but 
intelligent — sang  well — not  remarkable,  but  showed  great 
cleverness — full  of  talent — acted  it  well — filled  out  the 
scenes — kept  the  thing  going.  The  Tenor  was  good.  I 
remained  through  the  second  act.  Dropped  my  fan  onto  a 
bald  head.  Went  over  to  Drury  Lane — heard  one  act  of 
The  Hugenots. 

14.  Mr.  S dined  with  us — played  Besique  in  the 

evening — Louise  beat  of  course. 

15.  [Louise]  Sang  Don  Giovanni  to  a  full  house.    Ben- 
nett came  and  Smith  and  Mapleson  and  Duke  of  Newcastle. 

16.  Santley  sang  in  rehearsal  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro.    Mr. 
Stebbins  dined  with  us.     Played  solitaire  in  the  evening 
with  the  new  Besique  box. 

I  sang  several  times  at  the  Crystal  Palace  Concerts 
with  Sims  Reeves,  the  idolised  English  tenor.  Never 
have  I  heard  of  or  imagined  an  artist  so  spoiled  as 
Reeves.  The  spring  was  a  very  hot  one  for  London, 
although  to  us  who  were  accustomed  to  the  summer 
heat  of  America,  it  seemed  nothing.  But  poor  Sims 
Reeves  evidently  expected  to  have  heat  prostration  or 
a  sunstroke,  for  he  always  wore  a  big  cork  helmet  to 
rehearsals,  the  kind  that  officers  wear  on  the  plains  of 
India.  The  picture  he  made  sitting  under  his  huge 
helmet  with  a  white  puggaree  around  it,  fanning  him- 
self feebly,  was  one  never  to  be  forgotten.  He  had  a 
somewhat  frumpy  wife  who  waited  on  him  like  a  slave. 
I  had  little  patience  with  him,  especially  with  his 
trick  of  disappointing  his  audiences  at  the  eleventh 
hour.  But  he  could  sing!  He  was  a  real  artist,  and, 
when  he  was  not  troubling  about  the  temperature,  or 
his  diet,  he  was  an  artist  with  whom  it  was  a  privilege 
to  sing.  I  remember  singing  with  him  and  Mme. 
Patey  at  a  concert  at  Albert  Hall.  Mme.  Patey  was 


Fellow- Artists  175 

an  admirable  contralto  and  gifted  with  a  superb 
technique.  We  three  sang  a  trio  without  a  rehearsal 
and,  when  it  was  over,  Reeves  declared  that  it  was 
really  wonderful  the  way  in  which  we  all  three  had 
"taken  breath"  at  exactly  the  same  points,  showing 
that  we  were  all  well  trained  and  could  phrase  a  song 
in  the  only  one  correct  way.  This  was  also  noticed 
and  remarked  upon  by  several  professionals  who  were 
present. 

I  also  sang  with  Alboni.  At  an  Albert  Hall  concert 
on  my  second  visit  to  England  a  year  or  two  later,  I 
said  to  her: 

"Madame,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  honoured  I  feel  in 
singing  on  the  same  programme  with  you. " 

She  bowed  and  smiled.  She  was  a  very,  very  large 
woman,  heavily  built,  but  she  carried  her  size  with 
remarkable  dignity.  I  was  considerably  amused  when 
she  replied : 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  only  a  shadow  of  what  I 
have  been!" 

My  most  successful  song  that  season  was  my  old 
song  Beware.  It  was  unusual  to  see  a  prima  donna 
play  her  own  accompaniment,  which  I  always  did  to 
this  song  and  to  most  encores.  The  simple,  rather 
insipid  melody  was  written  by  Moulton,  the  first 
husband  of  the  present  Baronne  de  Hegeman,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  it  was  the  rage  in  the  sentimental 
younger  set  of  London.  How  tired  I  became  of  that 
ridiculous  sign-post  cover  and  the  "As  Sung  by  Miss 
Clara  Louise  Kellogg"  staring  up  at  me!  And  how 
much  more  tired  of  the  foolish  tune: 

4- 


-73- 


I  know  a  maid-en       fair   to  see,  Take  care!  Take  care! 


176  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

One  of  the  greatest  honours  paid  me  was  the  com- 
mand to  sing  in  one  of  the  two  concerts  at  Buckingham 
Palace  given  each  season  by  the  reigning  sovereign. 
I  have  always  kept  the  letter  that  told  me  I  had  been 
chosen  for  this  great  privilege.  Cusins,  from  whom  it 
came,  was  the  Director  of  the  Queen's  music  at  the 
Palace. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  ROYAL  CONCERTS  AT  BUCKINGHAM 

THE  Royal  Private  Concerts  at  Buckingham  Palace 
formed  in  those  days,  and  I  believe  still  form,  the 
last  word  in  exclusiveness.  Many  persons  who  have 
been  presented  at  court,  in  company  with  a  great 
crowd  of  other  social  aspirants,  never  come  close 
enough  to  the  inner  circle  of  royalty  to  get  within  even 
"speaking  distance"  of  these  concerts.  In  them  the 
court  etiquette  is  almost  mediaeval  in  its  brilliant 
formality;  and  yet  a  certain  intimacy  prevails  which 
could  not  be  possible  in  a  less  carefully  chosen  gather- 
ing. So  sacred  an  institution  is  the  Royal  Concert 
that  they  have  a  fixed  price — twenty-five  guineas  for 
all  the  solo  singers,  whatever  their  customary  salaries, 
— the  discrepancies  between  the  greater  and  the  lesser 
being  supposedly  filled  in  with  the  colossal  honour  done 
the  artists  by  being  asked  to  appear. 

Queen  Victoria  seldom  presided  at  these  or  similar 
functions.  The  Prince  of  Wales  usually  represented 
the  Crown  and  did  the  honours,  always  exceedingly 
well.  I  have  been  told  by  people  who  professed  to 
know  that  his  good  nature  was  rather  taken  advantage 
of  by  his  august  mother,  who  not  only  worked  him 
half  to  death  in  his  official  capacity,  but  never  allowed 
him  enough  income  for  the  purpose.  Personally,  I 
always  liked  the  Prince.  He  was  a  tactful,  courteous 
12  I77 


178  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

man  with  real  artistic  feeling  and  cultivation.  He 
filled  a  difficult  position  with  much  graciousness  and 
good  sense.  More  than  once  has  he  come  behind  the 
scenes  during  an  operatic  performance  to  congratulate 
and  encourage  me.  The  Princess  was  good  looking, 
but  was  said  to  be  both  dull  and  inflexible.  The 
former  impression  might  easily  have  been  the  result  of 
her  deafness  that  so  handicapped  her  where  social 
graces  were  concerned.  She  could  not  hear  herself 
speak  and,  therefore,  used  a  voice  so  low  as  to  be 
almost  inaudible.  When  she  spoke  to  me  I  could  not 
hear  a  word  of  what  she  said.  I  hope  it  was  agreeable. 
My  mother's  entries  in  her  diary  at  this  point  are: 

Monday.  17.  3  P.M.  Rehearsal  at  Anderson's  for  Buck- 
ingham Palace  Concert.  Met  Lucca  there.  A  perfect 
original.  Private  concert  in  the  evening  at  No.  7  Grafton 
Street.  Pinsuti  conducted.  Louise  encored  with  Beware. 
Concert  commenced  at  eleven.  Closed  at  2  A.M.  Saw 
about  five  bushels  of  diamonds. 

i8th.  Tuesday.  Went  to  Buckingham  Palace.  Re- 
hearsed at  eleven.  Very  good  palace,  but  dirty. 

19.  Rehearsal  of  Somnambula.     Got  home  at  4.     Mr. 
S came  in  the  evening. 

20.  Buckingham  Palace  Concert. 

The  rehearsal  at  Buckingham  Palace  was  held  in 
the  great  ballroom  with  the  Queen's  orchestra,  under 
Cusins,  and  the  artists  were  Titjiens,  Lucca,  Faure, 
and  myself.  These  concerts  were  composed  of  picked 
singers  from  both  Covent  Garden  and  Her  Majesty's 
and  were  supposed  to  represent  the  best  of  each.  As 
my  mother  notes,  I  first  met  Pauline  Lucca  there — 
such  an  odd  little  creature.  She  amused  me  immensely. 
She  was  always  doing  absurd  things  and  making  quaint, 


Royal  Concerts  at  BvicKmgHam        179 

entertaining  speeches.  She  was  not  pretty,  but  her 
eyes  were  beautiful.  On  this  occasion,  I  remember, 
Titjiens  was  rehearsing  one  of  her  great,  classic  arias. 
When  she  had  finished  we  all,  the  orchestra  included, 
applauded.  Lucca  was  sitting  between  Faure  and 
myself,  her  feet  nowhere  near  touching  the  floor,  and 
she  applauded  rhythmically  and  quite  indifferently, 
slap-bang!  slap-bang!  slinging  her  arms  out  so  as  to 
hit  both  of  us  and  then  slapping  them  together,  the 
while  she  kicked  up  her  small  feet  like  a  child  of  six. 
She  was  regardless  of  appearances  and  was  applauding 
to  please  herself. 

Lucca  used  to  warn  me  not  to  abuse  my  upper  notes. 
We  knew  her  as  almost  a  mezzo.  She  told  me,  how- 
ever, that  she  had  once  had  an  exceedingly  high  voice, 
and  that  one  of  her  best  parts  was  Leonora  in  Trovatore. 
She  had  abused  her  gift ;  but  she  always  had  a  delight- 
ful quality  of  voice  and  put  a  great  deal  of  personality 
into  her  work. 

The  approach  to  the  Palace  on  concert  nights  was 
very  impressive,  for  the  Grenadier  Guards  were  drawn 
up  outside,  and  inside  were  other  guards  even  more 
gorgeously  arrayed  than  the  cavalry.  In  the  concert 
room  itself  was  stationed  a  royal  bodyguard  of  the 
Yeomen  of  the  Guards.  The  commanding  officer  was 
called  the  Exon-in- Waiting.  The  proportions  of  the 
room  were  magnificent  and  there  were  some  fine  frescoes 
and  an  effective  way  of  lighting  up  the  stained  glass 
windows  from  the  outside;  but  the  general  impression 
was  not  particularly  regal.  The  decorations  were 
plain  and  dull — for  a  palace.  The  stage  was  arranged 
with  chairs,  rising  tier  above  tier,  very  much  like  a 
stage  for  oratorio  singers.  Before  royalty  appears,  the 
singers  seat  themselves  on  the  stage  and  remain  there 


i8o  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

until  their  turn  comes  to  sing.  This  is  always  a  trial 
to  a  singer,  who  really  needs  to  get  into  the  mood  and 
to  warm  up  to  her  appearance.  To  stand  up  in  cold 
blood  and  just  sing  is  discouraging.  The  prospect  of 
this  dreary  deliberateness  did  not  tend  to  raise  our 
spirits  as  we  sat  and  waited. 

At  last,  after  we  had  become  utterly  depressed  and 
out  of  spirits,  there  was  a  little  stir  and  the  great  doors 
at  the  side  of  the  ballroom  were  thrown  open.  First 
of  all  entered  the  Silver-Sticks  in  Waiting,  a  dozen  or 
so  of  them,  backing  in,  two  by  two.  All  were,  of 
course,  distinguished  men  of  title  and  position;  and 
they  were  dressed  in  costumes  in  which  silver  was  the 
dominant  note  and  carried  long  wands  of  silver.  They 
were  followed  by  the  Gold-Sticks  in  Waiting — men  of 
even  more  exalted  rank — and,  finally,  by  the  Royal 
Party.  We  all  arose  and  curtesied,  remaining  standing 
until  their  Highnesses  were  seated. 

The  concerts  were  called  informal  and  therefore  long 
trains  and  court  veils  were  not  insisted  on ;  but  the  men 
had  to  appear  in  ceremonial  dress — knee  breeches  and 
silk  stockings — and  the  women  invariably  wore  gor- 
geous costumes  and  family  jewels,  so  that  the  scene 
was  one  full  of  colour  and  glitter.  The  uniforms  of  the 
Ambassadors  of  different  countries  made  brilliant  spots 
of  colour.  The  Prince  of  Wales  and  his  Princess 
simply  sparkled  with  orders  and  decorations.  I  hap- 
pened to  hear  the  names  of  a  few  of  her  Royal  High- 
ness's.  They  were  the  Orders  of  Victoria  and  Albert, 
the  Star  of  India,  St.  Catherine  of  Russia,  and  the 
Danish  Family  Order.  She  also  wore  many  of  the 
crown  jewels,  and  with  excellent  taste  on  every  occasion 
I  have  seen  her.  With  a  black  satin  gown  and  court 
train  of  crimson,  for  example,  she  wore  only  diamonds; 


Royal   Concerts  at   BxicKingHam        181 

while  another  time  I  remember  she  wore  pearls  and 
sapphires  with  a  velvet  gown  of  cream  and  pansy 
colour.  Such  good  sense  and  discretion  in  the  choice 
of  gems  is  rare.  So  many  women  seem  to  think  that 
any  jewels  are  appropriate  to  any  toilet. 

Tremendously  august  personages  used  to  be  in  the 
audiences  of  those  Buckingham  Palace  concerts  at 
wrhich  I  sang  then  and  later,  such  as  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Teck,  the  Prince  and  Princess  Christian  of 
Schleswig-Holstein,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Cam- 
bridge, the  Crown  Prince  of  Sweden  and  Norway,  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Edinburgh.  Indeed,  royalty, 
peers  of  the  realm  and  ambassadors  or  representatives, 
and  members  of  the  court  were  the  only  auditors.  In 
spite  of  this  the  concerts  were  deadly  dull,  partly,  no 
doubt,  because  everybody  was  so  enormously  impressed 
by  the  ceremony  of  the  occasion  and  by  the  rigours  of 
court  etiquette  that  they  did  not  dare  move  or  hardly 
breathe.  There  was  one  woman  present  at  my  first 
Buckingham  Palace  concert,  a  lady-in-waiting  (she 
looked  as  if  she  had  become  accustomed  to  waiting) 
who  was  even  more  stiff  than  any  one  else  and  about 
whose  decollete  there  seemed  to  be  no  termination. 
Never  once,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  did  she  move 
either  head  or  body  an  inch  to  the  right  or  to  the  left 
throughout  the  performance. 

A  breach  of  etiquette  was  committed  on  one  occasion 
by  a  friend  of  mine,  a  compatriot,  who  had  accompanied 
me  to  one  of  these  gilt-edged  affairs.  She  stood  up 
behind  the  very  last  row  of  the  chorus  and — used  her 
opera-glasses !  Not  unnaturally,  she  wanted  for  once, 
poor  girl,  to  get  a  good  look  at  royalty;  but  it  is  needless 
to  say  that  she  was  hastily  and  summarily  suppressed. 

When    the    Prince   and    Princess    were    seated    the 


1 82  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

concert  could  begin.  There  were  two  customs  that 
made  those  functions  particularly  oppressive.  One 
was  that  all  applause  was  forbidden.  An  artist,  par- 
ticularly a  singer  or  stage  person  of  any  kind,  lives  and 
breathes  through  approbation:  and  for  a  singer  to  sing 
her  best  and  then  sit  down  in  a  dead  and  stony  silence 
without  any  sort  of  demonstration,  is  a  very  chilling 
experience.  The  only  indication  that  a  performance 
had  been  acceptable  was  when  the  Prince  of  Wales 
wriggled  his  programme  in  an  approving  manner.  A 
hand-clap  would  have  been  a  terrific  breach  of  etiquette. 
The  other  drawback — and  the  one  that  affected  the 
guests  even  more  than  the  artists — was  that,  when 
once  the  Prince  and  Princess  were  seated,  no  one  could 
rise  on  any  pretext  or  provocation  whatever.  I  think 
it  was  at  my  second  appearance  at  the  Royal  Concerts 
that  an  amusing  incident  occurred  which  impressed 
the  inconvenience  of  this  regulation  upon  my  memory. 
The  Duchess  of  Edinburgh,  daughter  of  the  Czar, 
entered  in  the  Prince  of  Wales's  party.  She  looked  an 
irritable,  dissatisfied,  bilious  person;  and  I  was  told 
that  she  was  always  talking  about  being  "the  daughter 
of  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias"  and  that  it  galled  her 
that  even  the  Princess  of  Wales  took  precedence  over 
her.  Those  were  the  good  old  days  of  tie-backs,  made 
of  elastic  and  steel,  a  sort  of  modified  hoop-skirt  with 
all  of  the  hoop  in  the  back.  The  tie-back  was  the 
passing  of  the  hoop  and  its  management  was  an  edu- 
cation in  itself.  I  remember  mine  came  from  Paris 
and  I  had  had  a  bit  of  difficulty  in  learning  to  sit  down 
in  it  gracefully.  Well — the  Duchess  of  Edinburgh  had 
not  mastered  the  art.  She  was  all  right  until  she  sat 
down  and  looked  very  regal  in  a  gown  of  thick,  heavy 
white  silk  and  the  most  gorgeous  of  jewels — encrusted 


Royal   Concerts  at  BucKing'Ham       183 

diamonds  and  Russian  rubies,  the  latter  nearly  the 
size  of  a  pigeon's  eggs.  Her  tiara  and  stomacher  were 
so  magnificent  that  they  appalled  me.  The  Prince 
and  Princess  sat  down  and  every  one  else  followed  suit, 
the  daughter  of  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias  among  the 
others  in  the  front  row.  And  she  sat  down  wrong. 
Her  tie-back  tilted  up  as  she  went  down ;  her  skirt  rose 
high  in  front,  revealing  a  pair  of  large  feet,  clad  in 
white  shoes,  and  large  ankles,  nearly  up  to  her  knees. 
There  was  a  footstool  under  the  large  feet  and  they 
were  very  much  in  evidence  the  whole  evening,  posing, 
entirely  against  their  owner's  will,  on  a  temporary 
monument.  The  awful  part  of  it  was  that  the  Duchess 
knew  all  about  it  and  was  so  furious  that  she  could  hardly 
contain  herself.  It  was  a  study  to  watch  the  daughter 
of  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias  in  these  circumstances. 
Her  face  showed  how  much  she  wanted  to  get  up  and  pull 
down  her  dress  and  hide  her  robust  pedal  extremities, 
but  court  etiquette  forbade,  and  the  Duchess  suffered. 
The  end  of  everything,  as  a  matter  of  course,  was 
God  Save  the  Queen  and,  as  there  were  nearly  al- 
ways two  prime  donne  present,  each  of  us  sang  one 
verse.  All  the  artists  and  the  chorus  sang  the  third, 
which  constituted  "Good-night"  and  was  the  official 
closing  of  the  performance.  I  usually  sang  the  first 
verse.  When  the  concert  was  over,  the  Prince  and 
Princess  with  the  lesser  royalties  filed  out.  They 
passed  by  the  front  of  the  stage  and  always  had  some 
agreeable  thing  to  say.  I  recall  with  much  pleasure 
Prince  Arthur — the  present  Duke  of  Connaught — 
stopping  to  compliment  me  on  a  song  I  had  just  sung — 
the  Polonaise  from  Mignon — and  to  remind  me  that 
I  had  sung  it  at  Admiral  Dahlgren's  reception  at  the 
Navy  Yard  in  Washington  during  his  American  visit. 


184  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

"You  sang  that  for  me  in  Washington,  did  n't  you, 
Miss  Kellogg?"  he  said;  and  I  was  greatly  pleased  by 
the  slight  courteous  remembrance. 

After  royalty  had  departed  every  one  drew  a  long 
breath  of  partial  relaxation.  The  guests  could  then 
move  about  with  more  or  less  freedom,  talk  with  each 
other,  and  speak  with  the  artists  if  they  felt  so  inclined. 
I  was  impressed  by  the  stiffness,  the  shyness  and  awk- 
wardness of  the  English  people — of  even  these  very 
great  English  people,  the  women  especially.  One  would 
suppose  that  authority  and  ease  and  graciousness  would 
be  in  the  very  blood  of  those  who  are,  as  the  saying 
is,  "to  the  manner  born,"  but  they  did  not  seem  to 
have  that  "manner."  Finally  I  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  really  liked  to  appear  shy  and 
gauche,  and  deliberately  affected  the  stiffness  and  the 
awkwardness. 

So  much  has  been  said  about  the  Victorian  prejudice 
against  divorce  and  against  scandal  of  all  sorts  that  no 
one  will  be  surprised  when  I  say  that,  on  one  occasion 
when  I  sang  at  the  Palace,  I  was  the  only  woman 
singer  whom  the  ladies  present  spoke  to,  although  the 
gentlemen  paid  much  attention  to  the  others.  The 
Duchess  of  Newcastle  was  particularly  cordial  to  me, 
as  were  also  the  wife  of  our  American  Ambassador  and 
Consuelo,  Duchess  of  Manchester.  My  fellow-artists 
on  that  occasion  were  Adelina  Patti  and  Trebelli 
Bettina  and,  as  each  of  them  had  been  associated 
with  scandal,  they  were  left  icily  alone.  At  that  time 
Patti  and  Nicolini  were  not  married  and  the  papers  had 
much  to  say  about  the  tenor's  desertion  of  his  family. 
I  have  sung  with  Nilsson  and  Patti  and  Lucca  at  these 
concerts.  I  have  sung  with  Faure  and  Santley  and 
Capoul  (nice  little  Capoul,  known  in  America  as  "the 


IVoyal  Concerts  at  BucKing'Ham        185 

ladies'  man")  and  I  have  sung  with  Scalchi  and 
Titjiens.  I  have  sung  there  with  even  the  great  Mario. 

There  was  a  supper  at  the  palace  after  the  Royal 
Concerts — two  supper  tables  in  fact — one  for  the 
royal  family  and  one  for  the  artists.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  on  my  first  appearance  there  of  the  table  set 
for  the  former  with  the  historic  gold  plate,  with  which 
English  crowned  heads  entertain  their  guests.  It  was 
splendid,  of  course,  although  very  heavy  and  ponderous, 
and  the  food  must  needs  have  been  something  superla- 
tive to  have  fitted  it.  I  doubt  if  it  was,  however,  as 
British  cooks  are  apt  to  be  mediocre,  even  those  in 
palaces.  Cooking  is  a  matter  of  the  Epicurean  tem- 
perament or,  rather,  with  the  British,  the  lack  of  it. 
Our  supper  was  not  at  all  bad  in  spite  of  this,  although 
little  Lucca  did  turn  up  her  nose  at  it  and  at  the 
arrangements. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed  tempestuously,  "stay  here 
to  '  second  supper ' !  Never !  These  English  prigs  want 
to  make  us  eat  with  the  servants!  You  may  stay  for 
their  horrid  supper  if  you  choose.  But  I  would  rather 
starve — "  and  off  she  went,  all  rustling  and  fluttering 
with  childish  indignation. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  after-concert  "receptions" 
at  the  palace  that  I  had  quite  a  long  chat  with  Adelina 
Patti  about  her  coming  to  America.  I  urged  it,  for  I 
knew  that  a  fine  welcome  was  awaiting  her  here.  But 
Nicolini, — her  husband  for  the  moment, — who  was 
sitting  near,  exclaimed:  "  Vous  voidez  la  tuer  !"  ("Do 
you  want  to  kill  her!")  It  seems  that  they  were  both 
terribly  afraid  of  crossing  the  ocean,  although  they 
apparently  recovered  from  their  dread  in  later  years. 

There  was  one  Royal  Concert  which  will  always 
remain  in  my  memory  as  the  most  marvellous  and 


1 86  7\n  A.merican  Prixna  Donna 

brilliant  spectacle,  socially  speaking,  of  my  whole  life. 
It  was  the  one  given  in  honour  of  the  Queen's  being 
made  Empress  of  India  and  among  the  guests  were 
not  only  the  aristocracy  of  Great  Britain,  but  all  the 
Eastern  princes  and  rajahs  representing  her  Majesty's 
new  empire.  At  that  time  hardly  any  one  had  been 
in  India.  Nowadays  people  make  trips  around  the 
world  and  run  across  to  take  a  look  at  the  Orient 
whenever  they  feel  inclined.  But  then  India  sounded 
to  us  like  a  fairy-tale  place,  impossibly  rich  and  mys- 
terious, a  country  out  of  The  Arabian  Nights  at  the 
very  least. 

My  mother  and  I  were  then  living  in  Belgrave 
Mansions,  not  far  from  the  palace  nor  from  the  Victoria 
Hotel  where  the  Indian  princes  put  up,  and  we  used  to 
see  them  passing  back  and  forth,  their  attendants 
bearing  exquisitely  carved  and  ornamented  boxes  con- 
taining choice  jewels  and  decorations  and  offerings  to 
"The  Great  White  Queen  across  the  Seas," — offerings 
as  earnest  of  good  faith  and  pledges  of  loyalty.  I  was 
glad  to  be  "commanded"  for  the  Royal  Concert  at 
which  they  were  to  be  entertained,  for  I  knew  that  it 
would  be  a  splendid  pageant.  And  it  turned  out  to  be, 
as  I  have  said,  the  richest  display  I  ever  saw.  The 
rich  stuffs  of  the  costumes  lent  themselves  most  fittingly 
to  a  lavish  exhibition  of  jewels.  The  ornaments  of  the 
royal  princesses  and  peeresses  that  I  had  been  admir- 
ing up  to  that  occasion  seemed  as  nothing  compared  to 
this  array.  Every  Eastern  potentate  appeared  to  be 
trying  to  vie  with  all  the  others  as  to  the  gems  he  wore 
in  his  turban. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  say  how  interesting 
I  found  all  this  sort  of  thing.  It  was  like  a  play  to  me 
— a  delicious  play,  in  which  I,  too,  had  my  part.  I 


Royal  Concerts  at  BucKingHam        187 

am  an  imperialist  by  nature.  I  love  pomp  and  cere- 
mony and  circumstance  and  titles.  The  few  times  that 
I  have  ever  been  dissatisfied  with  my  experiences  in 
the  lands  of  crowned  heads,  it  was  merely  because 
there  was  n't  quite  grandeur  enough  to  suit  my  taste! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

.THE  LONDON  SEASON 

OUR  house  in  St.  John's  Wood  that  we  rented  for 
our  first  London  season  was  small,  but  it  had 
a  front  door  and  a  back  garden  and,  on  the  whole,  we 
were  very  happy  there.  Whenever  my  mother  became 
bored  or  dissatisfied  she  thought  of  the  hotels  on  the 
Continent  and  immediately  cheered  up.  There  many 
people  sought  us  out,  and  others  were  brought  to  see  us. 
Newcastle  was  always  coming  with  someone  interesting 
in  tow.  Leonard  Jerome,  who  built  the  Jockey  Club, 
came  with  Newcastle,  I  remember,  and  so  did  Chevalier 
Wyckoff,  who  had  something  to  do  with  The  Herald, 
and  did  not  use  his  title. 

It  was  always  said  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  New- 
castle that  "he  married  her  for  her  money  and  she 
married  him  for  his  title,  so  that  they  each  got  what 
they  wanted."  It  may  have  been  true  and  probably 
was,  for  they  did  not  seem  an  ardently  devoted  couple, 
and  yet  it  is  difficult  to  believe  the  rather  cruel  report— 
they  were  both  so  much  too  lovable  to  merit  it.  The 
Duchess  was  a  beauty  and,  when  she  wore  the  big,  blue, 
Hope  Diamond, — (I  have  often  seen  her  wearing  it) 
she  was  a  most  striking  figure.  As  for  Newcastle 
himself,  I  always  found  him  a  most  simple,  warm- 
hearted, generous  man,  full  of  delicate  and  kindly 
feelings.  He  had  big  stables  and  raced  his  horses  all 

1 88 


Duke  of  Newcastle 

From  a  photograph  by  John  Burton  &  Sons 


THe  London  Season  189 

the  time,  but  it  was  said  of  him  that  he  generally  lost  at 
the  races  and  one  might  almost  know  that  he  would. 
He  was  a  sort  of  "mark"  for  the  racing  sharks  and  they 
plucked  him  in  a  shameless  manner.  I  first  met  the 
Newcastles  at  the  dinner  table  of  the  Dowager  Duchess 
of  Somerset,  and  more  than  once  afterwards  has  New- 
castle whispered  to  her  "hang  etiquette"  and  taken 
me  in  to  dinner  instead  of  some  frumpy  marchioness 
or  countess. 

We  became  acquainted  with  the  Tennants  of  Rich- 
mond Terrace.  Their  house  was  headquarters  for  an 
association  of  Esoteric  Buddhism; — A.  P.  Sinnett,  the 
author  of  the  book  entitled  Esoteric  Buddhism,  was  a 
prominent  figure  there.  The  family  is  perhaps  best 
known  from  the  fact  that  Miss  Tennant  married  the 
celebrated  explorer  Stanley.  But  to  me  it  always 
stood  for  the  centre  of  occult  societies.  The  household 
was  an  interesting  one  but  not  particularly  peaceful. 

I  suppose  the  world  is  full  of  queer  people  and 
situations,  but  I  do  think  that  among  the  queerest  of 
both  must  be  ranked  Lord  Dudley,  who  owned  Her 
Majesty's  Theatre.  He  lived  in  Park  Lane  and  was  a 
very  grand  person  in  all  ways,  and,  according  to  hear- 
say, firmly  believed  that  he  was  a  teapot,  and  spent  his 
days  in  the  miserable  hope  that  somebody  would  be 
kind  enough  to  put  him  on  the  stove!  He  did  not  go 
about  begging  for  the  stove  exactly;  his  desire  was  just 
an  ever-present,  underlying  yearning!  He  was  a  nice 
man,  too,  as  I  remember  him.  A  man  by  the  name  of 
Cowen  represented  the  poor  peer  and  we  gave  Cowen 
his  legitimate  perquisites  in  the  shape  of  benefit  concerts 
and  so  forth;  but  we  all  felt  that  the  whole  thing  was 
in  some  obscure  manner  terribly  grim  and  pathetic. 
Many  things  are  so  oddly  both  comic  and  tragic. 


190  7\n  American  Prima  Donna 

During  the  warm  weather  we  went  often  into  the 
country  to  dine  or  lunch  at  country  houses.  I  shall 
never  forget  Mr.  Goddard's  dinner  at  his  place.  He 
had  a  glass  house  at  the  end  of  the  regular  house  that 
was  half  buried  in  a  huge  heliotrope  plant  which  had 
grown  so  marvellously  that  it  covered  the  walls  like  a 
vine.  The  trunk  of  it  was  as  thick  as  a  man's  arm,  and 
the  perfume — !  My  mother  wrote  in  her  diary  a  single 
line  summing  up  the  day  as  it  had  been  for  her :  "  Lovely 
day.  Strawberries  and  two  black-eyed  children."  For 
my  part,  I  gathered  all  the  heliotrope  I  wanted  for  once 
in  my  life. 

Mr.  Sampson's  entertainment  is  another  notable 
memory.  Mr.  Sampson  was  financial  editor  of  that 
august  journal  The  London  Times,  much  sought  after 
by  the  large  moneyed  interests,  and  lived  in  Bushy 
Park,  beyond  Kensington.  Mrs.  Heurtly  was  our 
hostess;  and  Lang,  who  had  just  been  running  for 
Prime  Minister,  was  there  and,  also,  McKenzie,  an 
East  Indian  importer  in  a  big  way  who  afterwards 
became  Sir  Edward  McKenzie,  through  loaning  to  the 
Prince  of  Wales  the  money  for  the  trousseau  and 
marriage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales' s  daughter  Louise 
to  the  Duke  of  Fife,  and  who  then  was  not  invited  to 
the  wedding!  It  was  through  Sampson,  too,  that  I 
first  met  the  famous  critic  Davidson,  and  I  think  it 
was  on  the  occasion  of  his  party  that  I  first  met  Nilsson's 
great  friend  Mrs.  Cavendish  Bentinck. 

Among  all  the  memories  of  that  time  stands  out  that 
of  the  home  of  the  dear  McHenrys  in  Holland  Park, 
overlooking  the  great  sweep  of  lawn  of  Holland  House 
on  which,  it  is  said,  the  plotters  of  an  elder  day  went 
out  to  talk  and  conspire  because  it  was  the  only  place 
in  London  where  they  could  be  sure  that  they  would 


TKe  London  Season  191 

not  be  overheard.  Alma  Tadema  lived  just  around  the 
corner  and  we  often  saw  him.  Another  interesting 
character  of  whom  I  saw  a  good  deal  at  that  time  was 
Dr.  Quinn,  an  Irishman,  connected  through  a  morgan- 
atic marriage  with  the  royal  family.  He  was  very 
short  and  jolly,  and  very  Irish.  He  had  asthma  horribly 
and  ought  really  to  have  considered  himself  an  invalid. 
He  gasped  and  wheezed  whenever  he  went  upstairs, 
but  he  simply  could  n't  resist  dinner  parties.  He  loved 
funny  stories,  too,  not  only  for  his  own  sake  but  also 
because  his  friend,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  liked  them  so 
much.  My  mother  was  very  ready  in  wit  and  usually 
had  a  fund  of  stories  and  jokes  at  her  command,  and 
Dr.  Quinn  used  to  exhaust  her  supply,  taking  the 
greatest  delight  in  hearing  her  talk.  He  would  come 
panting  into  the  house,  his  round  face  beaming,  and 
gasp: 

"Any  new  American  jokes  ?  I  'm  dining  with  the 
Prince  and  want  something  new  for  him  !" 

He  loved  riddles  and  conundrums,  particularly 
those  that  had  a  poetical  twist  in  them.  One  of  his 
favourites  was: 

Why  is  a  sword  like  the  moon  ? 
Because  it  is  the  glory  of  the  (k}night  I 

I  have  heard  him  tell  that  repeatedly,  always  ending 
with  a  little  appreciative  sigh  and  the  ejaculation, 
"that  is  so  poetical,  is  n't  it  ?" 

One  lovely  evening  we  drove  out  to  Greenwich  to 
dinner,  in  Newcastle's  four-in-hand  coach.  It  was  not 
the  new  style  drag,  but  a  huge,  lumbering  affair,  all 
open,  in  which  one  sat  sideways.  There  were  postil- 
lions in  quaint  dress  and  a  general  flavour  of  the  Middle 
Ages  about  the  whole  episode.  There  was  nothing  of 


192  j\n  .American  Prima  Donna 

the  Middle  Ages  about  the  dinner  however.  There 
were  twenty-five  of  us  present  in  all ;  among  the  number 
Lady  Susan  Vane-Tempest,  a  beautiful  woman  with 
most  brilliant  black  hair,  and  Major  Stackpoole,  and 
dear  Lady  Rossmore,  his  wife  (who  was  so  impulsive 
that  I  have  seen  her  jump  up  in  her  box  to  throw  me  the 
flowers  she  was  wearing),  and  some  of  the  Hopes 
(Newcastle's  own  family),  that  race  that  always  behaves 
so  badly!  A  little  later  in  the  season,  my  mother  and 
I  accepted  with  delight  an  invitation  from  the  Duke 
and  Duchess  of  Newcastle  to  visit  them  at  their  place 
in  Brighton.  The  Duke  naively  explained  that  he  had 
been  having  "a  run  of  rotten  luck"  of  late,  and  thought 
that  I  might  turn  it.  Apparently  I  did,  for  the  very 
day  after  we  got  there  his  horse  won  in  the  races. 

I  sang,  of  course,  in  the  evening,  as  their  guest. 
There  was  no  thought  of  remuneration,  nor  could  there 
be.  The  graceful  way  in  which  our  dear  host  showed 
his  appreciation  was  to  send  me  a  pin,  beautifully 
executed,  of  a  horse  and  jockey  done  in  enamel, 
enclosed  in  a  circle  of  perfect  crystal,  the  whole  sur- 
rounded with  a  rim  of  superb  diamonds  and  amethysts 
— purple  and  white  being  his  racing  colours.  The 
brooch  was  inscribed  simply  with  the  date  on  which 
his  horse  ran  and  won. 

I  wore  that  pin  for  years.  When  I  had  it  cleaned  at 
Tiffany's  a  long  time  afterwards,  it  made  quite  a 
sensation,  it  was  so  unique.  Once,  I  remember,  I  was 
in  the  studio  dwelling  on  Fifteenth  Street  of  the 
Richard  Watson  Gilders  when  I  discovered  that,  having 
dressed  in  a  hurry,  I  had  put  my  pin  in  upside-down. 
I  started  to  change  it,  and  then  said : 

"O,  what's  the  use.  Nobody  will  ever  notice  it. 
They  are  all  too  literary  and  superior  around  here!" 


XKe  London  Season  193 

The  first  man  Mrs.  Gilder  presented  to  me  was 
evidently  quite  too  much  interested  in  the  pin  to  talk 
to  me. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  at  last  said  politely,  "but  you  will 
like  to  know,  I  feel  sure,  that  your  brooch  is  upside- 
down." 

"O,  is  it,"  said  I  sweetly.  But  I  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  change  it  even  then,  and,  afterwards,  I  would 
not  have  done  so  for  worlds,  for  I  should  have  been 
cheated  out  of  a  great  deal  of  quiet  amusement.  One 
of  the  contributors  to  The  Century  was  later  presented 
to  me,  and  the  effect  of  that  pin  upside-down  was 
more  irritating  than  it  had  been  to  the  first  man.  He 
almost  stood  on  his  head  trying  to  discover  what  was 
the  trouble.  At  last : 

"You  've  got  your  pin  upside-down,"  he  snapped  at 
me  as  though  a  personal  affront  had  been  offered  him. 

"I  know  I  have, "  I  snapped  back. 

"What  do  you  wear  it  that  way  for  ?"  he  demanded. 

"To  make  conversation!"  I  returned,  nearly  as 
cross  as  he  was. 

"I  don't  see  it,"  he  said  curtly.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  I  had  just  realised  that  upside-down  was  the  way 
to  wear  the  pin  henceforward.  I  said  to  Jeannette 
Gilder  the  next  day : 

"My  upside-down  pin  was  the  hit  of  the  evening.  I 
am  never  going  to  wear  it  any  other  way!" 

I  have  kept  my  word  during  all  these  years.  Never 
have  I  worn  Newcastle's  pin  except  upside-down,  and 
I  have  never  known  anyone  to  whom  I  was  talking  to 
fail  to  fall  into  the  trap  and  beg  my  pardon  and  say, 
"you  have  your  brooch  on  upside-down."  Years  later 
I  was  once  talking  to  Annie  Louise  Gary  in  Rome  and  a 
perfectly  strange  man  came  up  and  began  timidly: 
13 


194  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  your — 

"I  know,"  I  told  him  kindly.  "My  pin  is  upside- 
down,  is  n't  it  ?" 

He  retreated,  thinking  me  mad,  I  suppose.  But  the 
fun  of  it  has  been  worth  some  such  reputation.  Differ- 
ent people  approach  the  subject  so  differently.  Some 
are  so  apologetic  and  some  are  so  helpful  and  some, 
like  my  Century  acquaintance,  are  so  immensely  and 
disproportionately  annoyed. 

But  I  am  wandering  far  afield  and  quite  forgetting 
my  first  London  season  which,  even  at  this  remote 
day,  is  an  absorbing  recollection  to  me.  I  had  at  that 
time  enough  youthful  enthusiasm  and  desire  to  "keep 
going"  to  have  stocked  a  regiment  of  debutantes! 
Although  I  was  quite  as  carefully  chaperoned  and 
looked  out  for  in  England  as  I  had  been  in  America, 
there  was  still  an  unusual  sense  of  novelty  and  excite- 
ment about  the  days  there.  I  had  all  of  my  clothes 
from  Paris  and  learned  that,  as  Sir  Michael  Costa  had 
insultingly  informed  me,  I  was  "quite  a  pretty  woman 
anyhow."  Add  to  this  the  generous  praise  that  the 
London  public  gave  me  professionally,  and  is  it  to  be 
considered  a  wonder  that  I  felt  as  if  all  were  a  delightful 
fairy  tale  with  me  as  the  princess? 

As  my  mother  has  noted  in  her  diary,  we  went  one 
evening  to  Covent  Garden  to  hear  Patti  sing.  One 
really  charming  memory  of  Patti  is  her  Juliette.  She 
was  never  at  all  resourceful  as  an  actress  and  was  never 
able  to  stamp  any  part  with  the  least  creative  indi- 
viduality; but  her  singing  of  that  music  was  perfect. 
Maurice  Strakosch  came  into  our  box  to  present  to  us 
Baron  Alfred  de  Rothschild  who  became  one  of  the 
English  friends  whom  we  never  forgot  and  who  never 
forgot  us.  Maddox,  too,  called  on  us  in  the  box  that 


THe  London  Season  195 

evening.  He  was  the  editor  of  a  little  journal  that  was 
the  rival  of  the  Court  Circular.  Maddox  I  saw  a  good 
deal  of  later  and  found  him  very  original  and  entertain- 
ing. He  ordered  champagne  that  night,  so  we  had 
quite  a  little  party  in  our  box  between  the  acts. 

As  my  mother  has  also  noted,  I  went  to  Covent 
Garden  to  hear  Mario  for  the  first  time.  Fioretti  was 
the  prima  donna,  said  to  be  the  best  type  of  the  Italian 
school.  Altogether  the  occasion  was  expected  to  be  a 
memorable  one  and  I  was  full  of  expectations.  David- 
son, the  critic  of  The  London  Times  and  the  foremost 
musical  critic  on  the  Continent,  except  possibly  Dr. 
Hanslick  of  Vienna,  was  full  of  enthusiasm.  But  I  did 
not  think  much  of  Fioretti  nor,  even,  of  Mario!  Yes, 
Mario  the  great,  Mario  the  golden-voiced,  Mario  who 
could  "soothe  with  a  tenor  note  the  souls  in  Purga- 
tory" was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  me.  I  was  too 
inexperienced  still  to  appreciate  the  art  he  exhibited, 
and  his  voice  was  but  a  ghost  of  his  past  glory.  Yet 
England  adored  him  with  her  wonderful  loyalty  to  old 
idols. 

Several  distinguished  artists  and  musicians  came 
into  our  box  that  night,  Randegger  the  singing  teacher 
for  one,  and  my  good  friend  Sir  George  Armitage. 
Sir  George  was  breathless  with  enthusiasm. 

"There  is  no  one  like  Mario!"  he  exclaimed,  rubbing 
his  hands  with  delight. 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  him,"  I  said. 

"Ah,  what  an  experience!"  he  cried. 

"I  should  never  have  suspected  he  was  the  great 
tenor, "  I  had  to  admit. 

"Oh,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  Sir  George  eagerly, 
"that  'la'  in  the  second  act!  Did  you  hear  that  'la' 
in  the  second  act?  There  was  the  old  Mario!" 


196  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

His  devotion  was  so  touching  that  I  forebore  to 
remind  him  that  if  one  swallow  does  not  make  a  sum- 
mer, so  one  "la"  does  not  make  a  singer.  When  poor 
Mario  came  over  to  America  later  he  was  a  dire  failure. 
He  could  not  hold  his  own  at  all.  He  could  not  produce 
even  his  "la"  by  that  time.  Like  Nilsson,  however, 
he  greatly  improved  dramatically  after  his  vocal 
resonances  were  impaired,  for  I  have  been  told  that 
when  in  possession  of  his  full  voice  he  was  very  stiff 
and  unsympathetic  in  his  acting. 

Sir  George  Armitage,  by  the  way,  was  a  somewhat 
remarkable  individual,  a  typical,  well-bred  Englishman 
of  about  sixty,  with  artistic  tastes.  He  was  a  perfect 
example  of  the  dilettante  of  the  leisure  class,  with 
plenty  of  time  and  money  to  gratify  any  vagrant  whim. 
His  particular  hobby  was  the  opera ;  and  he  divided 
his  attentions  equally  between  Covent  Garden  with 
Adelina  and  Lucca,  and  Her  Majesty's  with  Nilsson, 
Titjiens,  and  Kellogg.  When  operas  that  he  liked  were 
being  given  at  both  opera  houses,  he  would  make  a 
schedule  of  the  different  numbers  and  scenes  with  the 
hours  at  which  they  were  to  be  sung: — 9.20  (Covent 
Garden),  Aria  by  Madame  Patti.  10  o'clock  (Her 
Majesty's),  Duet  in  second  act  between  Miss  Nilsson 
and  Miss  Kellogg.  10.30,  Sextette  at  Covent  Garden, 
etc.,  etc.  He  kept  his  brougham  and  horses  ready  and 
would  drive  back  and  forth  the  whole  evening,  reaching 
each  opera  house  just  in  time  to  hear  the  music  he 
particularly  cared  for.  He  had  seats  in  each  house  and 
nothing  else  in  the  world  to  do,  so  it  was  quite  a  simple 
matter  with  him,  only, — who  but  an  Englishman  of  the 
hereditary  class  of  idleness  would  think  of  such  a  way 
of  spending  the  evening?  He  was  a  dear  old  fellow 
and  we  all  liked  him.  He  really  did  not  know  much 


THe  London  Season  197 

about  music,  but  he  had  a  sincere  fondness  for  it  and 
dearly  loved  to  come  behind  the  scenes  and  offer 
suggestions  to  the  artists.  We  always  listened  to  him 
patiently,  for  it  gave  him  great  pleasure,  and  we  never 
had  to  do  any  of  the  things  he  suggested  because  he 
forgot  all  about  them  before  the  next  time. 
My  mother's  diary  reads: 

June  ij.  Last  night  Nozze  di  Figaro.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
McHenry  sent  five  bouquets.  Splendid  performance. 

75.     Dined  at  Duchess  of  Somerset's. 

16.  Dined  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  McHenry.  Stebbins — • 
Vanderbilts. 

18.  Don  Giovanni.  Checks  from  Mr.  Cowen.  Banker 
came  to  see  us.  Duke  of  Newcastle — Sir  George  Armitage. 

20.  Benedict's    Morning    Concert,    St.    James'    Hall. 
Encore  "Beware" — Don  Giovanni  in  the  evening. 

21.  Sunday.     Dined  with  Duke  and  Duchess  of  New- 
castle.   Major  Stackpoole,  Lady  Susan  Vane-Tempest  and 
others.    Rehearsed  La  Figula. 

Monday.  Rehearsal  of  La  Figula.  In  the  evening  went 
to  hear  Patti.  Did  n't  like  Patti.  Received  letter  from 
Colonel  Stebbins  from  Queenstown. 

Tuesday.  Rehearsed  La  Figula.  Called  at  Langham  on 
Godwin — all  came  out  in  the  evening. 

Wednesday  24.  Morning  performance  of  Le  Nozze — got 
home  at  6.  P.M.  Charity  concert  for  Mr.  Cowen  at  8.30  at 
Dudley  House. 

Thursday.  Rehearsal  of  La  Figula.  Concert  in  the 
evening  at  Lady  Fitzgerald's. 

Monday.  Louise  and  I  went  to  drive.  Do  not  learn 
anything  definite  about  the  future — where  I  am  to  be  next 
winter — no  one  knows.  I  do  not  see  any  settled  home  for 
me  any  more.  Sometimes  I  am  satisfied  to  have  it  so — at 
others — get  nervous  and  uneasy  and  discontented.  Yet  I 
have  lost  interest  in  going  home — it  will  be  so  short  a  visit 
— so  soon  a  separation — then  to  some  other  stranger  place — • 


198  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

new  friends — new  faces — I  want  the  old.  The  surface  of 
life  does  not  interest  me. 

Tuesday.    Dined  at  Langs' — large  party. 

Wednesday  75.  Went  to  Crystal  Palace — Mapleson's 
Benefit.  The  whole  performance  closed  with  the  most 
magnificent  display  of  Fireworks  I  ever  saw — most 
marvellous. 

16.  Don  Giovanni — full  house — great  success  in  the  part 
• — Duchess  and  Lady  Rossmore  threw  splendid  bouquets — 
house  very  enthusiastic — papers  fine — Mrs.  McHenry  and 
Mr.  Sampson  came  down — Duke  of  Newcastle  and  Major 
Stackpoole — Miss  Jarrett. 

Monday.     Le  Nozze  di  Figaro. 

Tuesday.     La  Figula. 

Thursday.  Went  to  theatre.  Saw  Nilsson  and  all  the 
artists.  Went  to  hear  Patti  in  Romeo  and  Juliette — Strak- 
osch  gave  us  the  box.  Strakosch  introduced  Rothschilds. 

Friday.  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro.  Baron  Rothschilds,  Sir 
George  Armitage  came  around. 

Saturday.  Sir  George  breakfasted  with  Louise.  Roths- 
childs called — letter  from  Mr.  Stebbins. 

Sunday  morning.  Dr.  Kellogg  of  Utica  called — spent 
several  hours.  Santley  called — and  McHenry  in  the 
evening. 

I  was  greatly  shocked  by  the  heavy  drinking  in  the 
'sixties  that  was  not  only  the  fashion  but  almost  the 
requirement  of  fashion  in  England.  My  horror  when  I 
first  saw  a  titled  and  distinguished  Englishwoman  in 
the  opera  box  of  the  Earl  of  Harrington  (our  friend  of 
the  charming  luncheon  party),  call  an  attendant  and 
order  a  brandy  and  soda  will  never  be  forgotten.  It 
was  the  general  custom  to  serve  refreshments  in  the 
boxes  at  the  opera,  and  bottles  and  glasses  of  all  sorts 
passed  in  and  out  of  these  private  "loges"  the  entire 
evening.  Indeed,  people  never  dreamed  of  drinking 


XHe   London  Season  199 

water,  although  they  drank  their  wines  "like  water" 
proverbially.  Such  prejudice  as  mine  has  two  sides, 
as  I  realise  when  I  think  of  the  landlady  of  our  apart- 
ment which  we  rented  during  a  later  London  season  in 
Belgrave  Mansions.  When  singing,  I  had  to  have  a 
late  supper  prepared  for  me — something  very  light  and 
simple  and  nourishing.  Our  good  landlady  used  to  be 
shocked  almost  to  the  verge  of  tears  by  my  iniquitous 
habit  of  drinking  water  pur-et-simple  with  my  suppers. 
"Oh,  miss,"  she  would  beg,  "let  me  put  a  bit  of 
sherry  or  something  in  it  for  you  !  It  '11  hurt  you  that 
way,  Miss!  It  '11  make  you  ill,  that  it  will!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HOME  AGAIN 

MAPLESON  asked  me  to  stay  on  the  other  side  and 
sing  in  England,  Ireland,  and  France  at  practi- 
cally my  own  terms,  but  I  refused  to  do  so.  I  had  made 
my  English  success  and  now  I  wanted  to  go  home  in 
triumph.  My  mother  agreed  with  me  that  it  was  time 
to  be  turning  homeward.  So  I  accepted  an  engagement 
to  sing  under  the  management  of  the  Strakosches, 
Max  and  Maurice,  on  a  long  concert  tour. 

I  have  only  gratitude  for  the  manner  in  which  my 
own  people  welcomed  my  return.  The  critics  found  me 
much  improved,  and  one  and  all  gave  me  credit  for 
hard  and  unremitting  work.  "Here  is  a  young  singer, " 
said  one,  "who  has  steadily  worked  her  way  to  the 
highest  position  in  operatic  art."  That  point  of  view 
always  pleased  me;  for  I  contend  now,  as  I  have  con- 
tended since  I  first  began  to  sing,  that,  next  to  having  a 
voice  in  the  first  place,  the  great  essential  is  to  work; 
and  then  work;  and,  after  that,  begin  to  WORK! 

New  York  as  a  city  did  not  please  me  when  I  saw  it 
again.  I  had  forgotten,  or  never  fully  realised,  how 
provincial  it  was.  Even  to-day  I  firmly  believe  that  it 
is  undoubtedly  the  dirtiest  city  in  the  world,  that  its 
traffic  regulation  is  the  worst,  and  its  cab  service  the 
most  expensive  and  inconvenient.  All  this  struck  me 
with  particular  force  when  I  came  home  fresh  from 
London  and  Paris. 

200 


Home  .Again  201 

My  contract  with  the  Strakosches  was  for  twenty- 
five  weeks,  four  appearances  a  week,  making  a  hundred 
performances  in  all.  This  tour  was  only  broken  by  a 
short  engagement  under  my  old  director  Maretzek  at 
the  Academy  of  Music  in  Philadelphia,  an  arrangement 
made  for  me  by  Max  Strakosch  when  we  reached  that 
city  in  the  spring;  and,  with  the  exception  of  Robert  le 
Diable,  Trovatore,  and  one  or  two  other  operas,  I  spent 
the  next  three  years  singing  in  concert  and  oratorio 
entirely.  It  was  not  enjoyable,  but  it  was  successful. 
We  went  all  over  the  country,  North,  South,  East, 
West,  and  everywhere  found  an  enthusiastic  public. 
Particularly  was  this  so  in  the  South  as  far  as  I  person- 
ally was  concerned.  The  poor  South  had  not  yet 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  Civil  War  and  did  not 
have  much  money  to  spend  on  amusements,  but,  when 
at  Richmond  the  people  learned  that  I  was  Southern 
born,  more  than  one  woman  said  to  me: 

"Go?  To  hear  you!  Yes,  indeed;  we  '11  hang  up  all 
we  have  to  go  and  hear  you!" 

One  of  my  popular  fellow-artists  on  the  first  tour 
was  James  M.  Wehli,  the  English  pianist.  He  was 
known  as  the  "left-handed  pianist"  and  was  in  reality 
better  suited  to  a  vaudeville  stage  than  to  a  concert 
platform.  His  particular  accomplishment  consisted  in 
playing  a  great  number  of  pieces  brilliantly  with  his 
left  hand  only,  a  feat  remarkable  enough  in  itself  but 
not  precisely  an  essential  for  a  great  artist,  and,  even 
as  a  pianist,  he  was  not  inspired. 

My  first  appearance  after  my  European  experience 
was  in  a  concert  at  the  Academy  of  Music  in  New 
York.  It  was  a  real  welcome  home.  People  cheered 
and  waved  and  threw  flowers  and  clapped  until  I  was 
literally  in  tears.  I  felt  that  it  did  not  matter  in  the 


2O2  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

least  whether  New  York  was  a  real  city  or  not ;  America 
was  a  real  country  !  When  the  concert  was  over,  the 
men  from  the  Lotus  Club  took  the  horses  out  of  my 
carriage  and  dragged  it,  with  me  in  it,  to  my  hotel. 
And  oh,  my  flowers!  My  American  title  of  "The 
Flower  Prima  Donna"  was  soon  reestablished  beyond 
all  perad venture.  Flowers  in  those  days  were  much 
rarer  than  they  are  now;  and  I  received,  literally, 
loads  and  loads  of  camellias,  and  roses  enough  to  set  up 
many  florist  shops.  Without  exaggeration,  I  sent  those 
I  received  by  cartloads  to  the  hospitals.  And  one 
"floral  offering"  that  I  received  in  Boston  was  actually 
too  large  for  any  waggon.  A  subscription  had  been 
raised  and  a  pagoda  of  flowers  sent.  I  had  to  hire  a 
dray  to  carry  it  to  my  hotel;  and  then  it  could  not  be 
got  up  the  stairs  but  had  to  spend  the  night  down- 
stairs. In  the  morning  I  had  the  monstrous  thing 
photographed  and  sent  it  off  to  a  hospital.  Even  this 
was  an  undertaking  as  I  could  not,  for  some  reason, 
get  the  dray  of  the  night  before ;  and  had  to  hire  several 
able-bodied  men  to  carry  it.  I  hope  it  was  a  comfort 
to  somebody  before  it  faded!  It  is  a  pity  that  this 
tribute  on  the  part  of  Boston  did  not  assume  a  more 
permanent  form,  for  I  should  have  much  appreciated  a 
more  lasting  token  as  a  remembrance  of  the  occasion. 
It  must  not  be  thought  that  I  was  unappreciative 
because  I  say  this.  I  love  anything  and  everything 
that  blooms,  and  I  love  the  spirit  that  offers  me  flowers. 
But  I  must  say  that  the  pagoda  was  something  of  a 
white  elephant. 

While  thinking  of  Boston  and  my  first  season  at 
home,  I  must  not  omit  mention  of  Mrs.  Martin. 
Indeed,  it  will  have  to  be  rather  more  than  a  mere 
mention,  for  it  is  quite  a  little  story,  beginning  indirectly 


Home  Again  203 

with  Wright  Sandford.  Wright  Sandford  was  the 
only  man  in  New  York  with  a  big  independent  fortune, 
except  "Willie"  Douglass  who  spent  most  of  his  time 
cruising  in  foreign  waters.  Wright  Sandford  was  more 
of  a  friend  of  mine  than  "Willie"  Douglass,  and  I  used 
to  haul  him  over  the  coals  occasionally  for  his  lazy 
existence.  He  had  eighty  thousand  a  year  and  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  do  but  to  amuse  himself. 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do?"  he  would  demand 
plaintively.  "I  Ve  no  one  to  play  with!" 

Whenever  I  was  starting  on  a  tour  he  would  send  me 
wonderful  hampers  put  up  by  Delmonico,  with  the 
most  delicious  things  to  eat  imaginable  in  them,  so 
that  my  mother  and  I  never  suffered,  at  least  for  the 
first  day  or  two,  from  the  inconveniences  of  the  bad 
food  usually  experienced  by  travellers.  A  very  nice 
fellow  was  Wright  Sandford  in  many  ways,  and  to  this 
day  I  am  appreciative  of  the  Delmonico  luncheons  if  of 
nothing  else. 

When  we  were  en  route  for  Boston  on  that  first  tour, 
—a  long  trip  then,  eight  or  nine  hours  at  least  by  the 
fast  trains — there  sat  close  to  us  in  the  car  a  little 
woman  who  watched  me  all  the  time  and  smiled  when- 
ever I  glanced  at  her.  I  noticed  that  she  had  no 
luncheon  with  her,  so  when  we  opened  our  Delmonico 
hamper,  I  leaned  across  and  asked  her  to  join  us.  I 
do  not  exactly  know  why  I  did  it  for  I  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  making  friends  with  our  fellow-travellers;  but 
the  little  person  appealed  to  me  somehow  in  addition 
to  her  being  lunchless.  She  was  the  most  pleased 
creature  imaginable!  She  nibbled  a  little,  smiled, 
spoke  hardly  a  word,  and  after  lunch  I  forgot  all  about 
her. 

In  Boston,  as  I  was  in  my  room  in  the  hotel  practis- 


204  An  American  Frixna  Donna 

ing,  before  going  to  the  theatre,  there  came  a  faint  rap 
on  the  door.  I  called  out  "  Come  in, "  yet  nobody  came. 
I  began  to  practise  again  and  again  came  a  little  rap. 
"Come  in,"  I  called  a  second  time,  yet  still  nothing 
happened.  After  a  third  rap  I  went  and  opened  the 
door.  In  the  dark  hall  stood  a  woman.  I  did  not 
remember  ever  having  seen  her  before;  but  I  could 
hardly  distinguish  her  features  in  the  passage. 

"I've  come,"  said  she  in  a  soft,  small  voice,  "to 
ask  you  if  you  would  please  kiss  me?" 

Of  course  I  complied.  Needless  to  say,  I  thought 
her  quite  crazy.  After  I  had  kissed  her  cheek  she 
nodded  and  vanished  into  the  darkness  while  I,  much 
mystified,  went  back  to  my  singing.  That  night  at  the 
theatre  I  saw  a  small  person  sitting  in  the  front  row, 
smiling  up  at  me.  Her  face  this  time  was  somewhat 
familiar  and  I  said  to  myself,  "I  do  believe  that's 
the  little  woman  who  had  lunch  with  us  on  the  train!" 
and  then — "  I  wonder — could  it  also  be  the  crazy  woman 
who  wanted  me  to  kiss  her?" 

During  our  week's  engagement  in  Boston  we  were 
confronted  with  a  dilemma.  Max  Strakosch  came  to 
me  much  upset. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  in  Providence — the  only 
decent  hotel  in  the  town  has  burned  down,"  he  said. 
"You  '11  have  to  stop  with  friends. " 

"I  haven't  any  friends  in  Providence,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  get  some,"  he  declared. 
"There  's  no  hotel  where  you  could  possibly  stay  and  we 
can't  cancel  your  engagement.  The  houses  are  sold  out. ' ' 

Presently  a  cousin  of  mine,  acting  as  my  agent  on 
these  trips,  came  and  told  me  that  a  man  had  called 
on  him  at  the  theatre  whose  wife  wished  to  "entertain" 
Miss  Kellogg  while  she  was  in  Providence! 


Home  Ag'ain.  205 

The  idea  appalled  me  and  I  flatly  refused  to  accept 
this  extraordinary  invitation ;  but  those  two  men  simply 
forced  me  into  it.  Strakosch,  indeed,  regarded  the 
incident  as  a  clear  dispensation  from  heaven.  "No- 
thing could  be  more  fortunate,"  he  said,  "never  mind 
who  they  are,  you  go  and  stay  with  them  anyway. 
You  Ve  wonderful  business  waiting  for  you  in  Provi- 
dence. " 

Well — I  went.  Yet  I  felt  very  guilty  about  accepting 
a  hospitality  that  would  have  to  be  stretched  so  far. 
It  was  no  joke  to  have  me  for  a  guest.  I  knew  well 
that  we  would  be  a  burden  on  any  household,  especially 
if  it  were  a  modest  one.  When  I  was  singing  I  had  to 
have  dinner  at  half-past  four  at  the  latest;  I  could  not 
be  disturbed  by  anything  in  the  morning  and,  besides, 
it  meant  three  beds — for  mother,  myself,  and  maid.  In 
Providence  we  arrived  at  a  tiny  house  at  the  door  of 
which  I  was  met  by  the  little  woman  of  the  train  who 
was,  as  I  had  surmised,  the  same  one  who  had  wanted 
me  to  kiss  her.  Supper  was  served  immediately. 
Everything  was  immaculate  and  dainty  and  delicious. 
Our  hostess  had  remembered  some  of  the  contents  of 
the  Delmonico  hamper  that  I  had  especially  liked  and 
had  cooked  them  herself,  perfectly. 

She  made  me  promise  never  to  stay  anywhere  else 
than  with  her  when  I  was  in  Providence  and  I  never 
have.  In  all,  throughout  the  many  years  that  have 
intervened  between  then  and  now,  I  must  have  visited 
her  more  than  twenty  times.  During  this  period  I  have 
been  privileged  to  watch  the  most  extraordinary  devel- 
opment that  could  be  imagined  by  any  psychologist. 
When  I  first  stopped  with  her  there  was  not  a  book 
in  the  house.  While  everything  was  exquisitely  clean 
and  well  kept,  it  was  absolutely  primitive.  On  my 


2O6  -A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

second  visit  I  found  linen  sheets  upon  the  beds  and  the 
soap  and  perfume  that  I  liked  were  ready  for  me  on  the 
dressing-table.  She  studied  my  "ways"  and  every 
time  I  came  back  there  was  some  new  and  flattering 
indication  of  the  fact.  Have  I  mentioned  her  name? 
It  was  Martin,  Mrs.  Martin,  and  her  husband  was 
conductor  on  what  was  called  the  "Millionaire's 
Train"  that  ran  between  Boston  and  Providence.  I 
saw  very  little  of  him,  but  he  was  a  nice,  shy  man, 
much  respected  in  his  business  connection.  He  was 
"Hezzy"  and  she  was  "Lizy" — short  for  Kezekiah  and 
Eliza.  They  were  a  genuinely  devoted  couple  in  their 
quiet  way  although  he  always  stood  a  trifle  in  awe  of 
his  wife's  friends.  She  was  about  ten  years  older 
than  I  and  had  a  really  marvellous  gift  for  growing 
and  improving.  After  a  while  they  left  the  first  house 
and  moved  into  one  a  little  larger  and  much  more 
comfortable.  They  had  a  library  and  she  began  to 
gather  a  small  circle  of  musical  friends  about  her.  Her 
knowledge  of  music  was  oddly  photographic.  She 
would  bring  me  a  sheet  of  music  and  say: 

"Please  play  this  part — here;  this  is  the  nice  part!" 
But  she  was,  and  is,  a  fine  critic.  Some  big  singers  are 
glad  to  have  her  approval.  As  in  music  so  it  was  with 
books — the  little  woman's  taste  was  instinctive  but 
unerring.  She  has  often  brought  me  a  book  of  poetry, 
pointed  out  the  best  thing  in  it,  and  said  in  her  soft  way: 

"Don't  you  think  this  is  nice?  I  do  think  it  is  so 
nice  !  It 's  a  lovely  poem. " 

There  was  a  young  telegraph  operator  in  Providence 
who  had  a  voice.  His  name  was  Jules  Jordan.  Mrs. 
Martin  took  him  into  her  house  and  practically  brought 
him  up.  He,  too,  began  to  grow  and  develop  and  is 
now  the  head  of  the  Arion  Society,  the  big  musical 


Home  .Again  207 

association  of  Providence  that  has  some  of  the  biggest 
singers  in  the  country  in  its  concerts.  Mrs.  Martin 
entertains  Jules  Jordan's  artistic  friends  and  goes  to 
the  concert  rehearsals  and  says  whether  they  are  good 
or  not.  She  knows,  too.  "I  am  called  the  'Singers" 
friend, "  she  said  to  me  not  very  long  ago.  She  criticises 
the  orchestra  and  chorus  as  well  as  the  solos,  and  she  is 
right  every  time.  I  consider  her  one  of  the  finest  critics 
I  know.  As  for  the  professional  critics,  she  is  acquainted 
with  them  all  and  they  have  a  very  genuine  respect  for 
her  judgment.  She  is  the  sort  of  person  who  is  called 
"queer."  Most  real  characters  are.  If  she  does  not 
like  one,  the  recipient  of  her  opinion  is  usually  fully 
aware  of  what  that  opinion  is.  She  has  no  social  idea 
at  all,  nor  any  toleration  for  it.  This  constitutes  one 
point  in  which  her  development  is  so  remarkable. 
Most  women  who  "make  themselves"  acquire,  first  of 
all,  the  social  graces  and  veneer,  the  artificiality  in 
surface  matters  that  will  enable  them  to  pass  muster 
in  the  "great  world."  She  has  allowed  her  evolution 
to  go  along  different  lines.  She  has  really  grown,  not 
in  accomplishments  but  in  accomplishment;  not  in 
manners  but  in  grey  matter.  Indeed,  I  hardly  know 
how  to  find  words  with  which  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Martin 
for  I  think  her  such  a  wonderful  person;  I  respect  and 
care  for  her  so  much  that  I  find  myself  dumb  when  I 
try  to  pay  her  a  tribute.  If  I  have  dared  to  speak  of 
her  humble  beginnings  in  the  first  little  house  it  is 
because  it  seems  to  me  that  only  so  can  I  really  do  her 
justice  as  she  is  to-day.  She  is  a  living  monument  of 
what  a  woman  can  do  with  herself  unaided,  save  by  the 
force  and  the  aspiration  that  is  in  her.  Meeting  her 
was  one  of  the  most  valuable  incidents  that  happened 
to  me  in  the  year  of  my  home-coming. 


2o8  An  American  Prima  Donna 

It  seems  as  if  I  spent  most  of  my  time  in  those  days 
being  photographed.  Likenesses  were  stiff  and  un- 
natural; and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the  picture 
of  me  that  has  always  been  the  best  known — the  one 
leaning  on  my  hand — marked  a  new  epoch  in  photogra- 
phy. I  had  been  posing  a  great  deal  the  day  that  was 
taken  and  was  dead  tired.  There  had  been  much 
arranging;  many  attempts  to  obtain  "artistic  effects." 
Finally,  I  went  off  into  a  corner  and  sat  down,  leaning 
my  head  on  my  hand,  while  the  photographer  put  new 
plates  in  his  camera.  Suddenly  he  happened  to  look 
in  my  direction  and  exclaimed : 

"By  Jove — if  I  could  only — I  'm  going  to  try  it 
anyway!"  Then  he  shouted,  "Don't  move,  please!" 
and  took  me  just  as  I  was.  He  was  very  doubtful  as  to 
the  result  for  it  was  a  new  departure  in  photography; 
but  the  attempt  was  very  successful,  and  other  photogra- 
phers began  to  try  for  the  same  natural  and  easy  effect. 
Another  time  I  happened  to  have  a  handkerchief  in  my 
lap  that  threw  a  white  reflection  on  my  face,  and  the 
photographer  discovered  from  it  the  value  of  large 
light-coloured  surfaces  to  deflect  the  light  where  it 
was  needed.  This,  too,  I  consider,  was  an  unconscious 
factor  in  the  introduction  of  natural  effects  into  pho- 
tography. I  never,  however,  took  a  satisfactory  picture. 
People  who  depend  on  expression  and  animation  for 
their  looks  never  do.  My  likenesses  never  looked  the 
way  I  really  did — except,  perhaps,  one  that  a  pho- 
tographer once  caught  while  I  was  talking  about  Duse, 
explaining  how  much  more  I  admired  her  than  I  did 
Bernhardt. 

In  those  concert  and  oratorio  years  I  remember  very 
few  pleasurable  appearances:  but  unquestionably  one 
of  the  few  was  on  June  I5th,  when  the  Beethoven 


Home  .Again  209 

Jubilee  was  held  and  I  was  asked  to  sing  as  alternative 
prima  donna  with  Parepa  Rosa.  Although  I  had  done 
well  in  the  Crystal  Palace,  I  was  not  a  singer  who  was 
generally  supposed  nor  expected  to  fill  so  large  a  place 
as  the  American  Institute  Colosseum  on  Third  Avenue, 
and  many  people  prophesied  that  I  could  not  be 
satisfactorily  heard  there.  I  asked  my  friends  to  go  to 
different  parts  of  the  house  and  to  tell  me  if  my  voice 
sounded  well.  Even  some  of  my  friends  out  in  front, 
though,  did  not  expect  to  hear  me  to  advantage.  But, 
contrary  to  what  we  all  feared,  my  voice  proved  to  have 
a  carrying  quality  that  had  never  before  been  ade- 
quately recognised.  The  affair  was  a  great  success. 
Parepa  Rosa  did  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  have  quite  so 
big  a  voice  as  she  was  usually  credited  with  having. 
She  had  power  only  to  G.  Above  the  staff  it  was  a 
mixed  voice.  She  could  diminish  to  an  exquisite 
quality,  but  she  could  not  reinforce  with  any  particular 
volume  or  vibration. 

There  was  another  occasion  that  I  remember  with  a 
deep  sense  of  its  impressiveness : — that  of  the  funeral  of 
Horace  Greeley,  at  which  I  sang.  I  knew  Horace 
Greeley  personally  and  recall  many  interesting  things 
about  him;  but,  naturally  perhaps,  what  stands  out  in 
my  memory  is  the  fact  that,  a  few  days  before  he  died, 
he  came  to  hear  me  sing  Handel's  Messiah,  being,  as 
he  said  afterwards,  particularly  touched  and  impressed 
by  my  rendering  of  /  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth. 
When  he  came  to  die,  the  last  words  that  he  said  were 
those,  whispered  faintly,  as  if  they  still  echoed  in  his 
heart.  It  may  have  been  because  of  this  fact  that  it 
was  I  who  was  asked  to  sing  at  his  funeral. 

On  my  return  from  abroad  I  was,  of  course,  wearing 
only  foreign  clothes  and,  as  a  consequence,  found 


2io  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

myself  the  embarrassed  centre  of  much  curiosity. 
American  women  were  still  children  in  the  art  of  dress- 
ing. At  one  time  I  was  probably  the  only  woman  in 
America  who  wore  silk  stockings  and  long  gloves. 
People  could  not  accustom  themselves  to  my  Parisian 
fashions.  In  Saratoga  one  dear  man,  whom  I  knew 
very  well,  came  to  me  much  distressed  and  whispered 
that  my  dress  was  fastened  crooked.  I  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  convincing  him  that  it  was  made  that  way 
and  that  the  crookedness  was  the  latest  French  touch. 
A  recent  fashion  was  that  humped-up  effect  that  gave 
the  wearer  the  attitude  then  known  and  reviled  as  the 
"Grecian  Bend."  It  was  made  famous  by  caricatures 
and  jokes  in  the  funny  papers  of  the  time,  but  I,  being 
a  new-comer  so  to  speak,  was  not  aware  of  its  news- 
paper notoriety.  Conceive  my  injured  feelings  when 
the  small  boys  in  the  street  ran  after  me  in  gangs 
shouting  "Grecian  Bend!  Grecian  Bend!" 

Another  point  that  hurt  the  delicate  sensibilities 
of  the  concert-going  American  public  was  the  fact  that 
at  evening  concerts  I  wore  low-necked  gowns.  On  the 
other  side  the  custom  of  wearing  a  dress  that  was  cut 
down  for  any  and  every  appearance  after  dark,  was 
invariable,  and  it  took  me  some  time  to  grasp  the 
cause  of  the  sensation  with  my  modestly  decollete 
frocks.  People,  further,  found  my  ease  effrontery,  and 
my  carriage,  acquired  after  years  of  effort,  "putting  on 
airs."  In  spite  of  the  cordiality  of  my  welcome  home, 
therefore,  I  had  many  critics  who  were  not  particularly 
kind.  Although  one  woman  did  write,  "who  ever  saw 
more  simplicity  on  the  stage?"  there  were  plenty  of 
the  others  who  said,  "Clara  Louise  Kellogg  has  become 
'stuck  up'  during  her  sojourn  abroad."  As  for  my 
innocent  desire  to  be  properly  and  becomingly  clothed, 


Home  .Again  211 

it  gave  rise  to  comments  that  were  intended  to  be 
quite  scathing,  if  I  had  only  taken  sufficient  notice  of 
them  to  think  of  them  ten  minutes  after  they  had 
reached  my  ears.  That  year  there  was  put  on  the 
millinery  market  a  " Clara  Louise"  bonnet,  by  the  way, 
that  was  supposed  to  be  a  great  compliment  to  me, 
but  that  I  am  afraid  I  would  not  have  been  seen  wearing 
at  any  price! 

In  this  connection  one  champion  arose  in  my  defence, 
however,  whose  efforts  on  my  behalf  must  not  be  over- 
looked. He  was  an  Ohio  journalist,  and  his  love  of 
justice  was  far  greater  than  his  knowledge  of  the 
French  language.  Seeing  in  some  review  that  Miss 
Kellogg  had  "a  larger  repertoire  than  any  living  prinia 
donna,"  this  chivalrous  writer  rushed  into  print  as 
follows : 

We  do  not  of  course  know  how  Miss  Kellogg  was  dressed 
in  other  cities,  but  upon  the  occasion  of  her  last  perform- 
ance here  we  are  positively  certain  that  her  repertoire  did 
not  seem  to  extend  out  so  far  as  either  Nilsson's  or  Patti's. 
It  may  have  been  that  her  overskirt  was  cut  too  narrow 
to  permit  of  its  being  gathered  into  such  a  lump  behind, 
or  it  may  have  been  that  it  had  been  crushed  down  acci- 
dentally, but  the  fact  remains  that  both  of  Miss  Kellogg's 
rivals  wore  repertoires  of  a  much  more  extravagant  size — • 
very  much  to  their  discredit,  we  think  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

"YOUR  SINCERE  ADMIRER" 

A  MAN  whose  name  I  never  learned  dropped  a  big, 
fragrant  bunch  of  violets  at  my  feet  each  night 
for  weeks.  Becoming  discouraged  after  a  while  because 
I  did  not  seek  him  out  in  his  gallery  seat,  he  sent  me  a 
note  begging  for  a  glance  and  adding,  for  identification, 
this  illuminating  point:  "  You  'II  know  me  by  my  boots 
hanging  over!" 

Who  could  disregard  such  an  appeal?  That  night  my 
eyes  searched  the  balconies  feverishly.  He  had  not 
vainly  raised  my  hopes;  his  boots  were  hanging  over, 
large  boots,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  seen  considerable 
service.  I  sang  my  best  to  those  boots  and — dear  man ! 
— the  violets  fell  as  sweetly  as  before.  I  have  con- 
jured up  a  charming  portrait  of  this  individual,  with  a 
soul  high  enough  to  love  music  and  violets  and  simple 
enough  not  to  be  ashamed  of  his  boots.  Would  that 
all  "sincere  admirers"  might  be  of  such  an  ingenuous 
and  engaging  a  pattern. 

The  variety  of  "admirers"  that  are  the  lot  of  a 
person  on  the  stage  is  extraordinary.  It  is  very  difficult 
for  the  stage  persons  themselves  to  understand  it.  It 
has  never  seemed  to  me  that  actors  as  a  class  are 
particularly  interesting.  Personally  I  have  always 
been  too  cognisant  of  the  personalities  behind  the 
scenes  to  ever  have  any  theatrical  idols;  but  to  a  great 
many  there  is  something  absolutely  fascinating  about 

212 


Sincere  Admirer**  213 

the  stage  and  stage  folk.  The  actor  appears  to  the 
audience  in  a  perpetual,  hazy,  calcium  glory.  We  are, 
one  and  all,  children  with  an  inherent  love  for  fairy 
tales  and  it  is  probably  this  love  which  is  in  a  great 
measure  accountable  for  the  blind  adoration  received 
by  most  stage  people. 

I  have  received,  I  imagine,  the  usual  number  of 
letters  from  "your  sincere  admirer,"  some  of  them 
funny  and  some  of  them  rather  pathetic.  Very  few  of 
them  were  really  impertinent  or  offensive.  In  nearly 
all  was  to  be  found  the  same  touching  devotion  to  an 
abstract  ideal  for  which,  for  the  moment,  I  chanced  to 
be  cast.  Once  in  a  while  there  was  some  one  who,  like 
a  person  who  signed  himself  "Faust,"  insisted  that  I 
had  "met  his  eyes"  and  "encouraged  him  from  afar." 
Needless  to  say  I  had  never  in  my  life  seen  him;  but  he 
worked  himself  into  quite  a  fever  of  resentment  on  the 
subject  and  wrote  me  several  letters.  There  was  also 
a  man  who  wrote  me  several  perfectly  respectful,  but 
ardent,  love  letters  to  which,  naturally,  I  did  not 
respond.  Then,  finally,  he  bombarded  me  with  another 
type  of  screed  of  which  the  following  is  a  specimen: 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  say  something, — if  it  is 
only  to  rate  me  for  my  importunities  or  to  tell  me  to  go 
about  my  business!  Anything  but  this  contemptuous 
silence!" 

But  these  were  exceptions.  Most  of  my  "admirers' " 
letters  are  gems  of  either  humour  or  of  sentiment. 
Among  my  treasures  is  an  epistle  that  begins: 

"Miss  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 

Miss: 

Before  to  expand  my  feelings,  before  to  make  you 
known  the  real  intent  of  this  note,  in  fine  before  to 


214  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

disclose  the  secrets  of  my  heart,  I  will  pray  you  to 
pardon  my  indiscretion  (if  indiscretion  that  can  be 
called)  to  address  you  unacquainted,"  etc. 

Is  n't  this  a  masterpiece? 

There  was  also  an  absurdly  conceited  man  who  wrote 
me  one  letter  a  year  for  several  years,  always  in  the 
same  vein.  He  was  evidently  a  very  pious  youth  and 
had  "gotten  religion"  rather  badly,  for  in  every  epistle 
he  broke  into  exhortation  and  urged  me  fervently  to 
become  a  "real  Christian,"  painting  for  me  the  joys 
of  true  religion  if  I  once  could  manage  to  "find  it." 
In  one  of  his  later  letters — after  assuring  me  that  he  had 
prayed  for  me  night  and  morning  for  three  years  and 
would  continue  to  do  so — he  ended  in  this  impressive 
manner : 

"...  And  if,  in  God's  mercy,  we  are  both  per- 
mitted to  walk  '  the  Golden  Streets, '  I  shall  there  seek 
you  out  and  give  you  more  fully  my  reasons  for  writing 
you." 

Could  anything  be  more  entertaining  than  this  nawe 
fashion  of  making  a  date  in  Heaven? 

Not  all  my  letters  were  love  letters.  Sometimes  I 
would  receive  a  few  words  from  some  woman  unknown 
to  me  but  full  of  a  sweet  and  understanding  friendli- 
ness. Mrs.  Elizabeth  Tilton,  then  the  centre  of  the 
stage  scandal  through  her  friendship  with  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  wrote  me  a  charming  letter  that  ended  with 
what  struck  me  as  a  very  pathetic  touch: 

"I  am  unwilling  to  be  known  by  you  as  the  defiant, 
discontented  woman  of  the  age — rather,  as  an  humble 
helper  of  those  less  fortunate  than  myself— 

I  never  knew  Mrs.  Tilton  personally,  but  have  often 
felt  that  I  should  have  liked  her.  One  of  the  dearest 


'  "Yoxir  Sincere  Admirer"  215 

communications  I  ever  received  was  from   a  French 
working  girl,  a  corset  maker,  I  believe.    She  wrote: 

I  am  but  a  poor  little  girl,  Mademoiselle,  a  toiler  in  the 
sphere  where  you  reign  a  queen,  but  ever  since  I  was  a 
very  little  child  I  have  gone  to  listen  to  your  voice  when- 
ever you  have  deigned  to  sing  in  New  York.  Those  magic 
tone-flowers,  scattering  their  perfumed  sweetness  on  the 
waiting  air,  made  my  child  heart  throb  with  a  wonderful 
pulsation.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  favourite  jests  of  the  critics  was  my 
obduracy  in  matters  of  sentiment.  It  was  said  that  I 
would  always  have  emotional  limitations  because  I  had 
no  love  affairs  like  other  prime  donne.  Once,  when  I 
gave  some  advice  to  a  young  girl  to  "keep  your  eyes 
fixed  upon  your  artistic  future,"  or  some  such  similar 
phrase,  the  press  had  a  good  deal  of  fun  at  my  expense. 
"That"  it  was  declared,  "was  exactly  what  was  the 
matter  with  Clara  Louise ;  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
an  artistic  future  instead  of  upon  some  man  who  was  in 
love  with  her!"  I  was  rather  a  good  shot,  very  fond  of 
target  shooting,  and  many  jokes  were  also  made  on  the 
supposed  damage  I  did.  One  newspaper  man  put  it 
rather  more  aptly.  "Not  only  in  pistol  shooting, "  he 
said,  "but  in  everything  she  aims  at,  our  prima  donna 
is  sure  to  hit  the  mark. " 

My  "sincere  admirers"  were  from  all  parts  of  the 
house,  but  I  think  I  found  the  "gallery"  ones  most 
sincere  and,  certainly,  the  most  amusing.  Max  Maret- 
zek  used  to  say  that  he  had  no  manner  of  use  for  an 
artist  unless  she  could  fill  the  family  circle.  I  am  glad 
to  be  able  to  record  that  I  always  could.  My  singing 
usually  appealed  to  the  people.  The  Police  Gazette 
always  gave  me  good  notices!  I  love  the  family  circle. 


216  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

As  a  rule  the  appreciation  there  is  greater  because  of 
the  sacrifices  which  they  have  had  to  make  to  buy  their 
seats.  When  people  can  go  to  hear  good  music  every 
night,  they  do  not  care  nearly  so  much  about  doing  it. 

I  wonder  if  anybody  besides  singers  get  such  an 
extraordinary  sense  of  contact  and  connection  with 
members  of  their  audiences?  I  have  sometimes  felt  as 
if  thought  waves,  reaching  through  the  space  between, 
held  me  fast  to  some  of  those  who  heard  me  sing.  Who 
knows  what  sympathies,  what  comprehensions,  what 
exquisite  friendships,  were  blossoming  out  there  in  the 
dark  house  like  a  garden,  waiting  to  be  gathered?  Let- 
ters— not  necessarily  love  letters — rather,  stray  mes- 
sages o  appreciation  and  understanding — have  brought 
me  a  similar  sense  of  joy  and  of  safe  intimacy.  After 
the  receipt  of  any  such,  I  have  sung  with  the  pleasant 
sense  that  a  new  friend — yes,  friend,  not  auditor — was 
listening.  I  have  suddenly  felt  at  home  in  the  big 
theatre;  and  often,  very  often,  have  I  looked  eagerly 
over  the  banked  hosts  of  faces,  asking  myself  wistfully 
which  were  the  strangers  and  which  mine  own  people. 

It  was  not  only  in  the  theatre  that  I  found  "ad- 
mirers." My  vacations  were  beset  with  those  who 
wanted  to  look  at  and  speak  to  a  genuine  prima  donna 
at  close  range.  Indeed,  I  had  frequently  to  protect 
myself  from  perfectly  strange  and  intrusive  people. 
Often  I  have  gone  to  Saratoga  during  the  season. 
Saratoga  was  a  fashionable  resort  in  those  days  and  I 
always  had  a  good  audience.  One  incident  that  I 
remember  of  Saratoga  was  a  detestable  train  that 
invariably  came  along  in  the  middle  of  my  performance 
—the  evening  train  from  New  York.  I  always  had  to 
stop  whatever  I  was  singing  and  wait  for  it  to  go  by. 
One  night  I  thought  I  would  cheat  it  and  timed  my 


Sincere  Admirer"  217 

song  a  little  earlier  so  that  I  would  be  through  before 
the  train  arrived.  It  just  beat  me  by  a  bar ;  and  I  could 
hear  it  steaming  nearer  and  nearing  as  I  hurried  on. 
As  I  came  to  the  end  there  was  a  loud  whistle  from  the 
locomotive ; — but,  for  once,  luck  was  on  my  side,  for  it 
was  pitched  in  harmony  with  my  final  note!  The 
coincidence  was  warmly  applauded. 

When  on  the  road  I  not  infrequently  practised  with 
my  banjo  at  hotels.  It  was  more  practicable  to  carry 
about  than  a  piano  and,  besides,  it  was  not  always  an 
easy  matter  to  hire  a  good  piano.  One  time — also  in 
Saratoga — I  was  playing  that  instrument  preparatory 
to  beginning  my  morning  practice,  when  an  old  gentle- 
man who  had  a  room  on  the  same  floor,  descended  to 
the  office  in  a  fine  temper.  He  was  a  long,  slim,  wiry 
old  fellow,  with  a  high,  black  satin  stock  about  his 
bony  neck,  very  few  hairs  on  his  little  round  head, 
deep  sunken  eyes,  pinched  features,  and  an  extremely 
nervous  manner. 

"See  here,"  he  burst  out  in  a  cracked  voice,  as  he 
danced  about  on  the  marble  tiling  of  the  office  floor, 
"have  you  a  band  of  nigger  minstrels  in  the  house,  eh! 
Zounds,  sir,  there  's  an  infernal  banjo  turn,  turn,  tum- 
ming  in  my  ears  every  morning  and  I  can't  sleep.  Drat 
banjoes — I  hate  'em.  And  nigger  minstrels — I  hate 
'em  too.  You  must  move  me,  sir,  move  me  at  once. 
That  banjo  '11  set  me  crazy.  Move  me  at  once,  d  'ye 
hear? — or  I  '11  leave  the  house!" 

"Why,  sir, "  said  the  clerk  suavely,  "that  banjo  player 
is  not  a  nigger  minstrel,  at  all,  sir,  but  Miss  Clara 
Louise  Kellogg,  who  uses  a  banjo  to  practise  with." 

The  hard  lines  in  the  old  fellow's  face  relaxed,  he 
looked  sharply  at  the  clerk  and,  leaning  over  the 
counter,  remarked: 


218  A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

"What,  Clara  Louise  Kellogg!  W— why,  I  '11  go  up 
and  listen !  Zounds,  man,  she  's  my  particular  favour- 
ite. She  's  charmed  me  with  her  sweet  voice  many  a 
time.  D — n  it,  give  her  another  banjo!  Tell  her  to 
play  all  day  if  she  wants  to!  Clara  Louise  Kellogg,  eh? 
H'm,  well,  well!" 

He  tottered  off  and,  as  I  observed,  after  that  so 
long  as  I  stayed  left  the  door  of  his  room  open 
down  the  hall  so  that  he  could  hear  my  "turn,  turn, 
tumming." 

A  very  different,  though  equally  ingenuous  tribute 
to  my  powers  was  that  given  by  an  old  Indian  trapper 
who,when  in  Chicago  to  sell  his  hides,  went  to  hear  me 
sing  and  expressed  his  emotions  to  a  newspaper  man  of 
that  city  in  approximately  the  following  language: 

I  have  heard  most  of  the  sweet  and  terrible  noises  that 
natives  make.  I  have  heard  the  thunder  among  the  Hills 
when  the  Lord  was  knocking  against  the  earth  until  it 
passed;  and  I  have  heard  the  wind  in  the  pines  and  the 
waves  on  the  beaches,  when  the  darkness  of  night  was  in 
the  woods,  and  nature  was  singing  her  Evening  Song  and 
there  was  no  bird  nor  beast  the  Lord  has  made,  and  I  have 
not  heard  a  voice  that  would  make  as  sweet  a  noise  as  na- 
ture makes  when  the  Spirit  of  the  Universe  speaks  through 
the  stillness ;  but  that  sweet  lady  has  made  sounds  to-night 
sweeter  than  my  ears  have  heard  on  hill  or  lake  shore  at 
noon,  or  in  the  night  season,  and  I  certainly  believe  that  the 
Spirit  of  the  Lord  has  been  with  her  and  given  her  the  power 
to  make  such  sweet  sounds.  A  man  might  like  to  have 
these  sweet  sounds  in  his  ears  when  his  body  lies  in  his 
cabin  and  his  spirit  is  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  great 
clearing.  I  wish  she  could  sing  for  me  when  my  eyes  grow 
dim  and  my  feet  strike  the  trail  that  no  man  strikes  but 
once,  nor  travels  both  wavs. 


*  Yoxir  Sincere  A.dmirer  **  219 

Surely  among  my  friends,  if  not  among  my  "sincere 
admirers,"  I  may  include  Okakura,  who  came  over 
here  with  the  late  John  La  Farge  as  an  envoy  from  the 
Japanese  Government  to  study  the  art  of  this  country 
as  well  as  that  of  Europe.  His  dream  was  to  found 
some  sort  of  institution  in  Japan  for  the  preservation 
and  development  of  his  country's  old,  national  ideals  in 
art.  His  criticisms  of  Raphael  and  Titian,  by  the  way, 
were  something  extraordinary.  As  for  music,  he  had  a 
marvellous  sense  for  it.  La  Farge  took  him  to  a 
Thomas  Concert  and  he  was  vastly  impressed  by  the 
music  of  Beethoven.  One  might  have  thought  that  he 
had  listened  to  Occidental  classics  all  his  life.  But,  for 
that  matter,  I  know  two  little  Japanese  airs  that 
Davidson  of  London  told  me  might  well  have  been  writ- 
ten by  Beethoven  himself;  so  it  may  be  that  there  is  an 
obscure  bond  of  sympathy,  which  our  less  acute  ears 
would  not  always  recognise,  between  our  great  master 
and  the  composers  of  Okakura's  native  land. 

Okakura  was  only  twenty-six  when  I  first  met  him  at 
Richard  Watson  Gilder's  studio  in  New  York,  but  he 
was  already  a  professor  and  spoke  perfect  English  and 
knew  all  our  best  literature.  When  Munkacsy,  the 
Hungarian  painter,  came  over,  his  colleague,  Francis 
Korbay,  the  musician,  gave  him  an  evening  reception, 
and  I  took  my  Japanese  friend.  It  was  a  charming 
evening  and  Okakura  was  the  success  of  the  reception. 
When  he  started  being  introduced  he  was  nothing  but 
a  professor.  Before  he  had  gone  the  rounds  he  had 
become  an  Asiatic  prince  and  millionaire.  He  had  the 
"grand  manner"  and  wore  gorgeous  clothes  on  formal 
occasions. 

Some  years  later  I  called  on  his  wife  in  Tokio.  I 
considered  this  was  the  polite  thing  for  me  to  do 


22O  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

although  Okakura  himself  was  in  Osaka  at  the  time. 
Okakura  had  an  art  school  in  Tokio,  kept  up  with  the 
aid  of  the  Government,  where  he  was  trying  to  fulfil 
his  old  ambition  of  preserving  the  individuality  of  his 
own  people's  work  and  of  driving  out  Occidental 
encroachments.  At  the  school,  where  we  had  gone 
with  a  guide  who  could  serve  also  as  interpreter,  I 
asked  for  Madame.  My  request  to  see  her  was  met 
with  consternation.  I  was  asking  a  great  deal — how 
much,  I  did  not  realise  until  afterwards.  Before  I 
could  enter,  I  was  requested  to  take  off  my  shoes. 
This  I  considered  impossible  as  I  was  wearing  high- 
laced  boots.  Furthermore,  we  were  having  winter 
weather,  very  cold  and  raw,  and  nothing  was  offered 
me  to  put  on  in  their  place,  as  the  Japanese  custom  is 
at  the  entrances  of  the  temples.  My  refusal  to  remove 
my  shoes  halted  proceedings  for  a  while;  but,  eventually, 
I  was  led  around  to  a  side  porch  where  I  could  sit 
on  a  chair  (I  was  amazed  at  their  having  such  a  thing) 
and  speak  with  the  occupants  of  the  house  as  they 
knelt  inside  on  their  heels.  The  shoji,  or  bamboo  and 
paper  screen,  was  pushed  back,  revealing  an  interior 
wonderfully  clever  in  its  simplicity.  The  furniture  con- 
sisted of  a  beautiful  brazier  and  two  rare  kakamonos 
on  the  wall — nothing  more. 

In  came  Madame  Okakura  in  a  grey  kimono  and 
bare  feet.  Down  she  went  on  her  knees  and  saluted  me 
in  the  prettiest  fashion  imaginable.  We  talked  through 
the  interpreter  until  her  daughter  entered,  who  spoke 
to  me  in  bad,  limited  French.  The  daughter  was  an 
unattractive  girl,  with  an  artificially  reddened  mouth, 
but  I  thought  the  mother  charming,  like  a  most 
exquisite  Parisienne  masquerading  as  a  "Japanese 
Lady." 


'"Yoxir  Sincere  Admirer"  221 

Not  long  after  my  visit  I  saw  Okakura  himself  and 
told  him  how  much  I  had  enjoyed  seeing  his  wife.  He 
gave  me  an  annoyed  glance  and  remained  silent.  I  was 
nonplussed  and  somewhat  mortified.  I  could  not  under- 
stand what  could  be  the  trouble,  for  he  acted  as  if  his 
honour  were  offended.  In  time  I  learned  that  the 
unpardonable  breach  of  good  form  in  Japan  was  to 
mention  his  wife  to  a  Japanese! 

So  graceful,  so  delicate  in  both  expression  and  feeling 
are  the  letters  that  I  have  received  from  Okakura,  that 
I  cannot  resist  my  inclination  to  include  them  in  this 
chapter, — although,  possibly,  they  are  somewhat  too 
personal.  On  January  4,  1887,  he  wrote: 

MY  DEAR  Miss  KELLOGG: 

France  lies  three  nights  ahead  of  us.  The  returning 
clouds  still  seek  the  western  shore  and  the  ocean  rolls  back 
my  dreams  to  you.  Your  music  lives  in  my  soul.  I  carry 
away  America  in  your  voice;  and  what  better  token  can 
your  nation  offer?  But  praises  to  the  great  sound  like 
flattery,  and  praises  to  the  beautiful  sound  like  love.  To 
you  they  must  both  be  tiresome.  I  shall  refrain.  You 
allude  to  the  Eastern  Lights.  Alas,  the  Lamp  of  Love 
flickers  and  Night  is  on  the  plains  of  Osaka.  There  are 
lingering  lights  on  the  crown  of  the  Himalayas,  on  the 
edges  of  the  Kowrous,  among  the  peaks  of  Hira  and  Kora. 
But  what  do  they  care  for  the  twilight  of  the  Valley?  They 
stand  like  the  ocean  moon,  regardless  of  the  tempest  below. 
Seek  the  light  in  the  mansion  of  your  own  soul.  Are  you 
not  yourself  the  Spirit  Nightingale  of  the  West?  Are  you  not 
crying  for  the  moon  in  union  with  your  Emersons  and 
Longfellows — with  your  La  Farges  and  your  Gilders?  Or 
am  I  mistaken?  I  enclose  my  picture  and  submit  the  trans- 
lation of  the  few  lines  on  the  back  to  your  axe  of  anger  and 
the  benevolence  of  your  criticism  as  we  say  at  home.  I  need  a 
great  deal  of  your  benevolence  and  deserve  more  of  your 


222  An  American  Prima  Donna 

anger,  as  the  lines  sound  so  poor  in  the  English.  However 
they  do  not  appear  very  grand  in  the  original  and  so  I 
submit  them  to  your  guillotine  with  a  free  conscience.  The 
lines  are  different  from  the  former,  for  I  forget  them — or 
care  not  to  repeat. 

Will  you  kindly  convey  my  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Gilder, 
for  I  owe  so  much  to  her,  to  say  nothing  of  your  friendship ! 
Will  you  also  condescend  to  write  to  me  at  your  leisure? 


(Translation: — One  star  floats  into  the  ocean  of  Night. 
Past  the  back  of  Taurus,  away  among  the  Pleiades,  whither 
dost  thou  go?  Sadly  I  watch  them  all.  My  soul  wanders 
after  them  into  the  infinite.  Shall  my  soul  return,  or — 
never?) 

VIENNA,  March  4,  1887. 
MY  DEAR  Miss  KELLOGG: 

The  home  of  a  traveller  is  in  his  sweet  memories.  Under 
the  shadow  of  Vesuvius  and  on  the  waters  of  Leman  my 
thoughts  were  always  for  America,  which  you  and  your 
friends  have  made  so  pleasant  to  me.  Pardon  me  therefore 
if  my  pen  again  turns  toward  you.  How  kind  of  you  to 
remember  me !  Your  letter  reached  me  here  last  night  and 
I  regret  that  I  did  not  stay  longer  in  Paris  to  receive  it 
sooner.  Will  you  not  favour  me  by  writing  again? 

Europe  is  an  enigma — often  a  source  of  sadness  to  me. 
The  forces  that  developed  her  are  tearing  her  asunder. 
Is  it  because  all  civilisations  are  destined  to  have  their 
days  and  nights  of  Brahma?  Or  was  the  principle  that 
organised  the  European  nations  itself  a  false  one?  Did  they 
grasp  the  moon  in  the  waters  and  at  last  disturb  the  image? 
I  know  not.  I  only  feel  that  the  Spirit  of  Unrest  is  standing 
beside  me.  War  is  coming  and  must  come,  sooner  or  later. 
Conflicting  opinions  chase  each  other  across  the  continent 
as  if  the  demons  fought  in  the  air  before  the  battle  of  men 
began.  The  policy  of  maintaining  peace  by  increasing  the 


'Yoxir   Sincere  Admirer"  223 

armies  is  absurd.  It  is  indeed  a  sad  state  of  things  to  make 
such  a  sophism  necessary.  I  am  getting  tired  of  this,  though 
there  is  some  consolation  that  there  are  more  fools  in  the 
world  than  the  Oriental. 

I  have  been  rather  disappointed  in  the  French  music. 
Perhaps  I  am  too  much  prejudiced  by  The  Persian  Serenade 
to  appreciate  anything  else.  The  acting  was  artificial 
and  there  was  no  voice  which  had  anything  of  the  Spirit 
Nightingale  in  it.  You  once  told  me  that  you  intended  to 
cross  the  Atlantic  this  summer.  When?  My  dreams  are 
impatient  of  your  arrival.  May  you  come  soon  and  correct 
my  one-sided  impression  of  Europe ! 

I  am  going  to  Rome  after  two  or  three  weeks'  stay  in 
this  place.  That  city  interests  me  deeply,  as  yet  the 
spiritual  centre  of  the  West,  whose  voice  still  influences 
the  politics  of  Central  Europe.  In  May  I  shall  be  at  the 
Paris  Salon  and  cross  over  to  London  in  the  early  part 
of  June. 

It  snows  every  day  in  Vienna  and  I  spend  my  time 
mostly  with  the  old  doctors  of  the  University.  Their  talks 
on  philosophy  and  science  are  indeed  interesting,  but 
somehow  or  other  I  don't  feel  the  delight  I  had  in  your 
society  in  New  York.  Why? 

July  12,  1887. 
MY  DEAR  Miss  KELLOGG: 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  in  Europe.  My 
duties  in  London  end  this  week  and  I  have  decided  to 
start  for  Munich  next  morning,  thence  to  Dresden  and 
Berlin.  I  am  thus  looking  forward  to  the  great  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  again  and  gathering  fragrance  from  your 
conversation.  Mrs.  Gilder  wrote  to  me  that  you  were  not 
quite  well  since  your  tour  in  the  West  and  my  anxiety 
mingles  with  my  hopes.  The  atmosphere  of  English  civili- 
sation weighs  heavily  on  me  and  I  am  longing  to  be  away. 
It  seems  that  civilisation  does  not  agree  with  a  member  of 
an  Eastern  barbaric  tribe.  My  conception  of  music  has 


224  An  American  Prime  Donna 

been  gradually  changing.    The  Ninth  Symphony  has  revo- 
lutionised it.    Where  is  the  future  of  music  to  be? 

Many  questions  crowd  on  me  and  I  am  impatient  to  lay 
them  before  you  at  Carlsbad.  Will  you  allow  me  to  do  so? 

BERLIN.    KAISERHAUF,  July  24th. 
MY  DEAR  Miss  KELLOGG: 

The  Spirit  of  Unrest  chases  me  northward.  Dresden 
glided  dimly  before  me.  Holbein  was  a  disappointment. 
The  Sistine  Madonna  was  divine  beyond  my  expectation. 
I  saw  Raphael  in  his  purity  and  was  delighted.  None  of  his 
pictures  is  so  inspired  as  this.  Still  my  thoughts  wandered 
amid  these  grand  creations.  They  flitted  past  in  a  shower 
of  colours  and  shadows  and  I  have  drifted  hither  through 
the  hazy  forests  of  Heine  and  the  troubled  grey  of  Millet's 
twilight.  .  .  . 

To  me  your  friendship  is  the  boat  that  bears  me 
proudly  home.  I  wait  with  pleasure  any  line  you  may 
send  me  there.  Wishing  every  good  to  you,  I  remain  yours 
respectfully. 

KAISERHAUF,  July  28th,  1887. 
MY  DEAR  Miss  KELLOGG: 

Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your  kind  letter.  My  address 
in  Japan  is  Monbusho,  Tokio,  and  if  you  will  write  to  me 
there  I  shall  be  so  happy!  The  task  which  I  have  imposed 
upon  myself — the  preserving  of  historical  continuity  and 
internal  development,  etc., — has  to  work  very  slowly.  I 
must  be  patient  and  cautious.  Still  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  confide  to  you  from  time  to  time  how  I  am  getting  on 
with  my  dream  if  you  will  allow  me  to  do  so.  You  say  that 
you  have  a  hope  of  finding  what  you  long  for  in  Buddhism. 
Surely  your  lotus  must  be  opening  to  the  dawn.  European 
philosophy  has  reached  to  a  point  where  no  advance  is 
possible  except  through  mysticism.  Yet  they  ignore  the 
hidden  truths  on  limited  scientific  grounds.  The  Berlin 
University  has  thus  been  forced  to  return  to  Kant  and 
begin  afresh.  They  have  destroyed  but  have  no  power  to 


Sincere  Admirer**  225 

construct,  and  they  never  will  if  they  refuse  to  see  more  into 
themselves.  .  .  . 

Hoping  you  the  best  and  the  brightest,  I  am 

Yours  faithfully, 
OKAKURA  KAKUDZO. 

And  so  I  come  to  one  of  all  these  who  was  really 
a  "sincere  admirer,"  and  a  faithful  lover,  although  I 
never  knew  him.  It  is  a  difficult  incident  to  write  of, 
for  I  feel  that  it  holds  some  of  the  deepest  elements  of 
sentiment  and  of  tragedy  with  which  I  ever  came  in 
touch. 

I  was  singing  in  Boston  when  a  man  sent  me  a  mes- 
sage saying  that  he  was  connected  with  a  newspaper 
and  had  something  of  great  importance  about  which 
he  wanted  to  see  me.  He  furthermore  said  that  he 
wished  to  see  me  alone.  It  was  an  extraordinary 
request  and,  at  first,  I  refused.  I  suspected  a  subter- 
fuge— a  wager,  or  something  humiliating  of  that  sort. 
But  he  persisted,  sending  yet  another  message  to  the 
effect  that  he  had  something  to  communicate  to  me 
which  was  of  an  essentially  personal  nature.  Finally 
I  consented  to  grant  him  the  interview  and,  as  he  had 
requested,  I  saw  him  alone. 

He  was  just  back  from  the  front  where  he  had  been 
war  correspondent  during  the  heart  of  the  Civil  War, 
and  he  told  me  that  he  had  a  letter  to  give  to  me  from  a 
soldier  in  his  division  who  had  been  shot.  The  soldier 
was  mortally  wounded  when  the  reporter  found  him. 
He  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  at  the  point  of  death, 
and  the  correspondent  asked  if  he  could  take  any  last 
messages  for  him  to  friends  or  relatives.  The  soldier 
asked  him  to  write  down  a  message  to  take  to  a  woman 
whom  he  had  loved  for  four  years,  but  who  did  not 
know  of  his  love, 
is 


226  .A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

"Tell  her,"  he  said,  speaking  with  great  difficulty, 
41  that  I  would  not  try  even  to  meet  her;  but  that  I  have 
loved  her,  before  God,  as  well  as  any  man  ever  loved  a 
woman."  He  asked  the  reporter  to  feel  inside  his 
uniform  for  the  woman's  picture.  "  It  is  Miss  Kellogg, " 
he  added,  just  before  he  died.  "You — don't  think  that 
she  will  be  offended  if  I  send  her  this  message — now— 
do  you?" 

He  asked  the  correspondent  to  draw  his  sabre  and 
cut  off  a  lock  of  hair  to  send  to  me,  and  the  reporter 
wrote  down  the  message  on  the  only  scraps  of  paper  at 
his  disposal — torn  bits  scribbled  over  with  reports  of 
the  enemy's  movements,  and  the  names  of  other  dead 
soldiers  whose  people  must  be  notified  when  the  battle 
was  over.  And  then  the  soldier — my  soldier — died; 
and  the  correspondent  left  him  the  picture  and  came 
away. 

The  scribbled  message  and  the  lock  of  hair  he  put 
into  my  hands,  saying: 

"He  was  very  much  worried  lest  you  would  think 
him  presumptuous.  I  told  him  that  I  was  sure  you 
would  not." 

I  was  weeping  as  he  spoke,  and  so  he  left  me. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ON  THE   ROAD 

OH,  those  first  tours!  Not  only  was  it  exceedingly 
uncomfortable  to  travel  in  the  South  and  West 
at  that  time,  but  it  was  decidedly  risky  as  well.  High- 
way robberies  were  numerous  and,  although  I  myself 
never  happened  to  suffer  at  the  hands  of  any  desper- 
adoes, I  have  often  heard  first-hand  accounts  from 
persons  who  had  been  robbed  of  everything  they  were 
carrying.  While  I  was  touring  in  Missouri,  Jesse  James 
and  his  men  were  operating  in  the  same  region  and  the 
celebrated  highway  man  himself  was  once  in  the  train 
with  me.  I  slipped  quietly  through  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  him  in  the  smoking-car.  Two  of  his  "aides"  were 
with  him  and,  although  they  were  behaving  themselves 
peacefully  enough  for  the  time  being,  I  think  that  most 
of  the  passengers  were  willing  to  give  them  a  wide 
berth.  During  one  concert  trip  of  our  company  I  saw 
something  of  a  situation  which  might  have  developed 
dramatically.  There  was  a  "three  card  monte"  gang 
working  on  the  train.  One  of  their  number  pretended 
to  be  a  farmer  and  entirely  innocent,  so  as  to  lure 
victims  into  the  game.  I  saw  this  particularly  tough- 
looking  individual  disappear  into  the  toilet  room  and 
come  out  made  up  as  the  farmer.  It  was  like  a  play. 
I  also  saw  him  finger  a  pistol  that  he  was  carrying  in  his 
right  hip  pocket :  and  I  experienced  a  somewhat  blood- 

227 


228  An  American  Prima  Donna 

thirsty  desire  that  there  might  be  a  genuine  excitement 
in  store  for  us,  but  the  alarm  spread  and  nobody  was 
snared  that  trip. 

As  there  were  frequently  no  through  trains  on  Sun- 
days, we  had  sometimes  to  have  special  trains.  I  never 
quite  understood  the  idea  of  not  having  through  trains 
on  Sundays,  for  surely  other  travellers  besides  unfortu- 
nate singers  need  occasionally  to  take  journeys  on  the 
Sabbath.  But  so  it  was.  And  once  our  "special"  ran 
plump  into  a  big  strike  of  locomotive  engineers  at 
Dayton,  Ohio.  Our  engine  driver  was  held  up  by  the 
strikers  bivouacked  in  the  railroad  yards  and  we  were 
stalled  there  for  hours.  At  last  an  engineer  from  the 
East  was  found  who  consented  to  take  our  train 
through  and  there  was  much  excitement  while  he  was 
being  armed  with  a  couple  of  revolvers  and  plenty  of 
ammunition,  for  the  strikers  had  threatened  to  shoot 
down  any  "scab"  who  attempted  to  break  the  strike. 
We  were  all  ordered  to  get  down  on  the  floor  of  the  car 
to  avoid  the  stones  that  might  be  thrown  through  the 
windows  when  we  started ;  and  when  the  train  began  to 
move  slowly  our  situation  was  decidedly  trying.  We 
could  hear  a  hail  of  shots  being  fired,  as  the  engine 
gathered  speed,  but  our  volunteer  engineer  knew  his 
business  and  had  been  authorised  to  drive  the  engine 
at  top  speed  to  get  us  out  of  the  trouble,  so  soon  the 
noise  of  shooting  and  the  general  uproar  were  left 
behind.  The  plucky  strike-breaker  was  barely  grazed, 
but  I,  personally,  never  cared  to  come  any  closer  to 
lawlessness  than  I  was  then. 

There  were  some  bright  spots  on  these  disagreeable 
journeys.  One  day  as  I  was  coming  out  of  a  hall  in 
Duluth  where  I  had  been  rehearsing  for  the  concert 
we  were  giving  that  evening,  I  ran  into  a  man  I  knew, 


On  tHe  Road  229 

an.  Englishman  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  I  was  in 
London. 

"There!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  knew  it  was  you!" 

"Did  you  see  the  advertisement?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  he  returned,  "I  'm  just  off  the  yacht  that 's 
lying  out  there  in  the  Lake.  I  'm  out  looking  into  some 
mining  interests,  you  know.  I  heard  your  voice  from 
the  boat  and  I  knew  it  must  be  you,  so  I  thought  I  *d 
take  a  run  on  shore  and  look  you  up. " 

But  such  pleasant  experiences  were  the  exception. 
The  South  in  general  was  in  a  particularly  blind  and 
dull  condition  just  then.  The  people  could  not  con- 
ceive of  any  amusement  that  was  not  intended  literally 
to  "amuse. "  They  felt  it  incumbent  to  laugh  at  every- 
thing. My  chevol  de  bataille  was  the  Polonaise  from 
Mignon,  at  the  end  of  which  I  had  introduced  some 
chromatic  trills.  It  is  a  wonderful  piece  and  required 
a  great  deal  of  genuine  technique  to  master.  A  portion 
of  the  house  would  appreciate  it,  of  course,  but  on  one 
occasion  a  detestable  young  couple  thought  the  trills 
were  intended  to  be  humorous.  Whenever  I  sang  a 
trill  they  would  poke  each  other  in  the  ribs  and  giggle 
and,  when  there  was  a  series  of  the  chromatic  trills, 
they  nearly  burst.  The  chromatics  introduced  by  me 
were  never  written.  They  went  like  this: 


One  disapproving  unit  in  an  audience  can  spoil  a 
whole  evening  for  a  singer.  I  recall  one  concert  when  I 
was  obsessed  by  a  man  in  the  front  row.  He  would  not 
even  look  at  me.  Possibly  he  considered  that  I  was  a 
spoiled  creature  and  he  did  not  wish  to  aid  and  abet  the 


230  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

spoiling,  or,  perhaps,  he  was  really  bored  and  disgusted. 
At  any  rate,  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  point  high  over 
my  head  and  not  with  a  beatific  expression,  either.  He 
clearly  did  not  think  much  of  my  work.  Well — I  sang 
my  whole  programme  to  that  one  man.  And  I  was  a 
failure.  Charmed  I  ever  so  wisely,  I  could  not  really 
move  him.  But  I  did  make  him  uncomfortable!  He 
wriggled  and  sat  sidewise  and  clearly  was  uneasy.  He 
must  have  felt  that  I  was  trying  to  win  him  over  in 
spite  of  himself.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  other  singers 
do  the  same  with  obdurate  auditors?  Surely  they 
must,  for  it  is  a  sort  of  fetish  of  the  profession  that  there 
is  always  one  person  present  who  is  by  far  the  most 
difficult  to  charm.  In  that  clever  play  The  Concert  the 
pianist  tells  the  young  woman  in  love  with  him  that  he 
was  first  interested  in  her  when  he  saw  her  in  the 
audience  because  she  did  not  cry.  He  played  his  best 
in  order  to  moisten  her  eyes  and,  when  he  saw  a  tear 
roll  down  her  cheek,  he  knew  that  he  had  triumphed  as 
an  artist.  Our  audiences  were  frequently  inert  and 
indiscriminating.  One  night  an  usher  brought  me  a 
programme  from  some  one  in  the  audience  with  a 
suggestion  scribbled  on  the  margin: 

"Can't  you  sing  something  devilish  for  a  change?" 

I  believe  they  really  wanted  a  song  and  dance,  or  a 
tight-rope  exhibition.  We  had  a  baritone  who  sang  well 
"The  Evening  Star"  from  Tannhauser  and  his  per- 
formance frequently  ended  in  a  chill  silence  with  a  bit 
of  half-hearted  clapping.  He  had  a  sense  of  humour 
and  he  used  to  come  off  the  stage  and  say: 

"That  didn't  go  very  well!  Do  you  think  I'd 
better  do  my  bicycle  act  next?" 

Times  change  and  standards  with  them.  The  towns 
where  they  yearned  for  bicycle  acts  and  "something 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Carmen 

From  a  photograph 


On  tKe  Road  231 

devilish"  are  to-day  centres  of  musical  taste  and  culti- 
vation. I  never  think  of  the  change  of  standards  with- 
out being  reminded  of  an  old  tale  of  my  father's  which 
is  curious  in  itself,  although  I  cannot  vouch  for  it  nor 
verify  it.  He  said  that  somewhere  in  Germany  there 
was  a  bell  in  a  church  tower  which,  when  it  was  first 
hung,  many  years  before,  was  pitched  in  the  key  of  C 
and  which  was  found  to  ring,  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
according  to  our  present  pitch,  at  about  our  B  flat. 
The  musical  scientists  said  that  the  change  was  not  in 
the  bell  but  in  our  own  standard  of  pitch,  which  had 
been  gradually  raised  by  the  manufacturers  of  pianos 
who  pitched  them  higher  and  higher  to  get  a  more 
brilliant  tone. 

My  throat  was  very  sensitive  in  those  days.  I  took 
cold  easily  and  used,  besides,  to  be  subject  to  severe 
nervous  headaches.  Yet  I  always  managed  to  sing. 
Indeed,  I  have  never  had  much  sympathy  with  capri- 
cious prime  donne  who  consider  themselves  and  their 
own  physical  feelings  before  their  obligation  to  the 
public  that  has  paid  to  hear  them.  While,  of  course,  in 
fairness  to  herself,  a  singer  must  somewhat  consider 
her  own  interests,  I  do  believe  that  she  cannot  be 
too  conscientious  in  this  connection.  In  Carmen  one 
night  I  broke  my  collar  bone  in  the  fall  in  the  last  act. 
I  was  still  determined  to  do  my  part  and  went  out, 
after  it  had  been  set,  and  bought  material  to  match  my 
costumes  so  that  the  sling  the  surgeon  had  ordered 
should  not  be  noticed.  And,  for  once  fortunately,  my 
audiences  were  either  not  exacting  or  not  observing,  for, 
apparently,  no  comment  was  ever  made  on  the  fact 
that  I  could  not  use  my  right  arm.  I  could  not 
help  questioning  whether  my  gestures  were  usually  so 
wooden  that  an  arm,  more  or  less,  was  not  perceptible ! 


232  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

Our  experiences  in  general  with  physicians  on  the  road 
were  lamentable.  As  a  result  my  mother  carried  a 
regular  medicine  chest  about  with  her  and  all  of  my 
fellow-artists  used  to  come  to  her  when  anything  was 
the  matter  with  them. 

Another  hardship  that  we  all  had  to  endure  was  the 
being  on  exhibition.  It  is  one  of  the  penalties  of  fame. 
Special  trains  were  most  unusual,  and  so  were  prime 
donne,  and  crowds  used  to  gather  on  the  station  plat- 
forms wherever  we  stopped,  waiting  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  us  as  we  passed  through. 

And  the  food !  Some  of  our  trials  in  regard  to  food— 
or,  rather,  the  lack  of  it — were  very  trying.  Voices  are 
very  dependent  on  the  digestion;  hence  the  need  of,  at 
least,  eatable  food,  however  simple  it  may  be.  On  one 
trip  we  really  nearly  starved  to  death  for,  of  course, 
there  were  no  dining-cars  and  the  train  did  not  stop  at 
any  station  long  enough  to  forage  for  a  square  meal. 
Finally,  in  desperation,  I  told  one  of  the  men  in  the 
company  that,  if  he  would  get  some  "crude  material" 
at  the  next  stop  and  bring  it  in,  I  would  cook  it.  So  he 
succeeded  in  securing  a  huge  bundle  of  raw  chops,  a 
loaf  of  bread  and  some  butter.  There  was  a  big  stove 
at  one  end  of  the  car  and  on  its  coals  I  broiled  the 
chops,  made  tea  and  toast,  and  we  all  feasted.  Indeed, 
it  seemed  a  feast  after  ten  hours  with  nothing  at  all! 
Another  time  I  got  off  our  "special"  to  hunt  luncheon 
and  was  left  behind.  I  raced  wildly  to  catch  the  train 
but  could  not  make  it.  After  a  while  the  company 
discovered  that  they  had  lost  me  on  the  way  and  backed 
up  to  get  me.  Speaking  of  food,  I  shall  never  forget  the 
battle  royal  I  once  had  with  a  hotel  manager  on  the 
road  in  regard  to  my  coloured  maid,  Eliza.  She  was  a 
very  nice  and  entirely  presentable  girl  and  he  would 


On  the  Road  233 

not  let  her  have  even  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  dining-room. 
We  had  had  a  long,  hard  journey,  and  she  was  quite  as 
tired  as  the  rest  of  us.  So,  when  I  found  her  still  wait- 
ing after  I  had  lunched,  I  made  a  few  pertinent  remarks 
to  the  effect  that  her  presence  at  the  table  was  much 
to  be  preferred  to  the  men  who  had  eaten  there  without 
table  manners,  uncouth,  feeding  themselves  with  their 
knives. 

"And  what  else  did  we  have  the  war  for!"  I  finally 
cried.  How  the  others  laughed  at  me.  But  Eliza  was 
fed,  and  well  fed,  too. 

I  had  always  to  carry  my  own  bedclothes  on  the 
Western  tours.  When  we  first  started  out,  I  did  not 
realise  the  necessity,  but  later,  I  became  wiser.  Cleanli- 
ness has  always  been  almost  more  than  godliness  to  me. 
Before  I  would  use  a  dressing-room  I  nearly  always  had 
it  thoroughly  swept  out  and  sometimes  cleaned  and 
scrubbed.  This  all  depended  on  the  part  of  the  country 
we  were  in.  I  came  to  know  that  in  certain  sections  of 
the  South-west  I  should  have  to  have  a  regular  house- 
cleaning  done  before  I  would  set  foot  in  their  accommo- 
dations. I  missed  my  bath  desperately,  and  my  piano, 
and  all  the  other  luxuries  that  have  become  practical 
necessities  to  civilised  persons.  When  I  could  not  have 
a  state-room  on  a  train,  my  maid  would  bring  a  cup  of 
cold  water  to  my  berth  before  I  dressed  that  was  a  poor 
apology  for  a  bath,  but  that  saved  my  life  on  many  a 
morning  after  a  long,  stuffy  night  in  a  sleeper. 

The  lesser  hardships  perhaps  annoyed  me  most.  Bad 
food,  bad  air,  rough  travelling,  were  worse  than  the 
more  serious  ills  of  fatigue  and  indispositions.  But  the 
worst  of  all  was  the  water.  One  can,  at  a  pinch,  get 
along  with  poor  food  or  with  no  food  at  all  to  speak  of, 
but  bad  water  is  a  much  more  serious  matter.  Even 


234  An  American  Prima  Donna 

dirt  is  tolerable  if  it  can  be  washed  off  afterwards.  But 
I  have  seen  many  places  where  the  water  was  less 
inviting  than  the  dirt.  When  I  first  beheld  Missouri 
water  I  hardly  dared  wash  in  it,  much  less  drink  it, 
and  was  appalled  when  it  was  served  to  me  at  the  table. 
I  gazed  with  horror  at  the  brown  liquid  in  my  tumbler, 
and  then  said  faintly  to  the  waiter: 

"Can't  you  get  me  some  clear  water,  please?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  "it  '11  be  clearer,  ma'am,  but  it 
•won't  be  near  so  rich!" 

And  all  the  time  I  was  working,  for,  no  matter  what 
the  hardships  or  distractions  that  may  come  an  artist's 
way,  he  or  she  must  always  keep  at  work.  Singing  is 
something  that  must  be  worked  for  just  as  hard  after  it 
is  won  as  during  the  winning  process.  Liszt  is  supposed 
to  have  said  that  when  he  missed  practising  one  day  he 
knew  it;  when  he  missed  two  days  his  friends  knew  it; 
on  the  third  day  the  public  knew  it.  I  often  rehearsed 
before  a  mirror,  so  that  I  could  know  whether  I  looked 
right  as  well  as  sounded  right;  and,  apropos  of  this,  I 
have  been  much  impressed  by  the  fact  that  ways  of 
rehearsing  are  very  different  and  characteristic.  Ellen 
Terry  once  told  me  that,  when  she  had  a  new  part  to 
study,  she  generally  got  into  a  closed  carriage,  with  the 
window  open,  and  was  driven  about  for  two  or  three 
hours,  working  on  her  lines. 

"It  is  the  only  way  I  can  keep  my  repose,"  she 
said.  "  I  only  wish  I  had  some  of  Henry's  repose  when 
studying  a  part!" 


Sir  Henry  Irving  and  Ellen  Terry  as  the  Vicar  and  Olivia 
From  a  photograph  by  Window  &  Grove 


CHAPTER  XXII 

LONDON   AGAIN 

AFTER  nearly  three  years  of  concert  and  oratorio 
and  racketing  about  America  on  tours,  it  was  a 
joy  to  go  to  England  again  for  another  season.  The 
Peace  Jubilee  Association  asked  me  to  sing  at  their 
celebration  in  Boston  that  spring,  but  I  went  to  London 
instead.  The  offer  from  the  Association  was  a  great 
compliment,  however,  and  especially  the  wording  of 
the  resolution  as  communicated  to  me  by  the  secretary. 

"Unanimously  voted: — That  Miss  Clara  Louise  Kel- 
logg, the  leading  prima  donna  of  America,  receive  the 
special  invitation  of  the  Executive  Committee,  etc." 

The  spring  season  in  London  was  well  along  when  we 
arrived  there  and,  before  I  had  been  in  the  city  a  day,  I 
began  to  feel  at  home  again.  Newcastle  and  Dr.  Quinn 
called  almost  immediately  and  Alfred  Rothschild  sent 
me  flowers,  all  of  which  made  me  realize  that  this  was 
really  England  once  more  and  that  I  was  among  old 
and  dear  friends. 

I  was  again  to  sing  under  Mapleson's  management. 
The  new  opera  house,  built  on  the  site  of  Her  Majesty's 
that  had  burned,  was  highly  satisfactory;  and  he  had 
nearly  all  of  his  old  singers  again — Titjiens,  Nilsson,  and 
myself  among  others.  Patti  and  Lucca  were  still  our 
rivals  at  Covent  Garden;  also  Faure  and  Cotogni;  and 
there  was  a  pretty,  young,  new  singer  from  Canada 
with  them,  Mme.  Albani,  who  had  a  light,  sweet  voice 

235 


236  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

and  was  attractive  in  appearance.  Our  two  innovations 
at  Her  Majesty's  were  Marie  Roze  from  the  Paris  Opera 
Comique — later  destined  to  be  associated  with  me 
professionally  and  with  Mapleson  personally — and  Italo 
Campanini.  Campanini  was  the  son  of  a  blacksmith  in 
Italy  and  had  worked  at  the  forge  himself  for  many 
years  before  going  on  the  stage,  and  was  the  hero  of 
the  hour,  for  not  only  was  his  voice  a  very  lovely  one, 
but  he  was  also  a  fine  actor.  It  was  worth  while  to  see 
his  Don  Jose.  People  forgot  that  Carmen  herself  was 
in  the  opera.  Our  other  tenor  was  Capoul,  the  French- 
man, Trebelli-Bettini  was  our  leading  contralto  and  my 
friend  Foli — "the  Irish  Italian  from  Connecticut "- 
was  still  with  us. 

Campanini,  the  idol  of  the  town,  was,  like  most 
tenors,  enormously  pleased  with  himself.  To  be  sure, 
he  had  some  reason,  with  his  heavenly  voice,  his  dra- 
matic gift,  and  his  artistic  instinct;  but  one  would  like 
some  day  to  meet  a  man  gifted  with  a  divine  vocal 
organ  and  a  simple  spirit  both,  at  the  same  time.  It 
appears  to  be  an  impossible  combination.  When 
Mapleson  told  Campanini  that  he  was  to  sing  with  me 
in  Lucia  he  frowned  and  considered  the  point. 

"An  American,"  he  muttered  doubtfully.     "I  have 
never  heard  her — do  I  know  that  she  can  sing?    I— 
Campanini — cannot  sing  with  a  prima  donna  of  whom 
I  know  nothing!    Who  is  this  Miss  Kellogg  anyway?" 

"You  're  quite  right, "  said  the  Colonel  with  the  most 
cordial  air  of  assent.  "You  'd  better  hear  her  before 
you  decide.  She  's  singing  Linda  to-night.  Go  into  the 
stalls  and  listen  to  her  for  a  few  moments.  If  you  don't 
want  to  sing  with  her,  you  don't  have  to." 

That  evening  Campanini  was  on  hand,  ready  to  con- 
trovert the  very  idea  of  an  American  prima  donna 


London  Again  237 

daring  to  sing  with  him.  After  the  first  act  he  came  out 
into  the  foyer  and  ran  into  the  Colonel. 

"Well,"  remarked  that  gentleman  casually,  winking 
at  Jarrett,  "can  she  sing?" 

"Sing?"  said  Campanini  solemnly,  "she  has  the 
voice  of  a  flute.  It  is  the  absolutely  perfect  tone.  It  is 
a — miracle!" 

So,  after  all,  Campanini  and  I  sang  together  that 
season  in  Lucia  and  in  other  operas.  While  Campanini 
was  a  great  artist,  he  was  a  very  petty  man  in  many 
ways.  A  little  incident  when  Capoul  was  singing 
Faust  one  night  is  illustrative.  Capoul,  much  admired 
and  especially  in  America,  was  intensely  nervous  and 
emotional  with  a  quick  temper.  Between  him  and 
Italo  Campanini  a  certain  rivalry  had  been  developing 
for  some  time,  and,  whatever  may  be  asserted  to  the 
contrary,  male  singers  are  much  bitterer  rivals  than 
women  ever  are.  On  the  night  I  speak  of,  Campanini 
came  into  his  box  during  the  Salve  d-imora  and  set  down 
to  listen.  As  Capoul  sang,  the  Italian's  face  became 
lined  with  a  frown  of  annoyance  and,  after  a  moment  or 
two,  he  began  to  drum  on  the  rail  before  him  as  if  he 
could  not  conceal  his  exasperation  and  ennui.  The 
longer  Capoul  sang,  the  louder  and  more  irritated  the 
tapping  became  until  most  of  the  audience  was  unkind 
enough  to  laugh  just  a  little.  Poor  Capoul  tried,  in 
vain,  to  sing  down  that  insistent  drumming,  and,  when 
the  act  was  over,  he  came  behind  the  scenes  and 
actually  cried  with  rage. 

On  what  might  be  called  my  second  debut  in  London, 
I  had  an  ovation  almost  as  warm  as  my  welcome  home 
to  my  native  land  had  been  three  years  before.  I  had 
forgotten  how  truly  the  English  people  were  my  friends 
until  I  heard  the  applause  which  greeted  me  as  I  walked 


238  An  -American  Prima  Donna 

onto  the  stage  that  night  in  Linda  di  Chamouix.  Sir 
Michael  Costa,  who  was  conducting  that  year,  was 
always  an  irascible  and  inflexible  autocrat  when  it 
came  to  operatic  rules  and  ideals.  One  of  the  points  of 
observance  upon  which  he  absolutely  insisted  was  that 
the  opera  must  never  be  interrupted  for  applause. 
Theoretically  this  was  perfectly  correct;  but  nearly  all 
good  rules  are  made  to  be  broken  once  in  a  while  and 
it  was  quite  obvious  that  the  audience  intended  this 
occasion  to  be  one  of  the  times.  Sir  Michael  went  on 
leading  his  orchestra  and  the  people  in  front  went  on 
clapping  until  the  whole  place  became  a  pandemonium. 
The  house  at  last,  and  while  still  applauding,  began  to 
hiss  the  orchestra  so  that,  after  a  minute  of  a  tug-of-war 
effect,  Sir  Michael  was  obliged  to  lay  down  his  baton — 
although  with  a  very  bad  grace — and  let  the  applause 
storm  itself  out.  I  could  see  him  scowling  at  me  as  I 
bowed  and  smiled  and  bowed  again,  nearly  crying  out- 
right at  the  friendliness  of  my  welcome.  There  were 
traitors  in  his  own  camp,  too,  for,  as  soon  as  the  baton 
was  lowered,  half  the  orchestra — old  friends  mostly- 
joined  in  the  applause!  Sir  Michael  never  before  had 
broken  through  his  rule ;  and  I  do  not  fancy  he  liked  me 
any  the  better  for  being  the  person  to  force  upon  him 
this  one  exception. 

I  include  here  a  letter  written  to  someone  in  America 
just  after  this  performance  by  Bennett  of  The  London 
Telegraph  that  pleased  me  extremely,  both  for  its 
general  appreciative  friendliness  and  because  it  was  a 
resume  of  the  English  press  and  public  regarding  my 
former  and  my  present  appearance  in  England. 

Miss  Kellogg  has  not  been  forgotten  during  the  years 
which  intervened,  and  not  a  few  habitues  cherished  a  hope 


London  Again  239 

that  she  would  be  led  across  the  Atlantic  once  more.  She 
was,  however,  hardly  expected  to  measure  herself  against 
the  creme-de-la-cr&me  of  the  world's  prime  donne  with  no 
preliminary  beat  of  drum  and  blowing  of  trumpet,  trusting 
solely  to  her  own  gifts  and  to  the  fairness  of  an  English 
public.  This  she  did,  however,  and  all  the  English  love 
of  "pluck"  was  stirred  to  sympathy.  We  felt  that  here 
was  a  case  of  the  real  Anglo-Saxon  determination,  and 
Miss  Kellogg  was  received  in  a  manner  which  left  nothing 
of  encouragement  to  be  desired.  Defeat  under  such  circum- 
stances would  have  been  honourable,  but  Miss  Kellogg  was 
not  defeated.  So  far  from  this,  she  at  once  took  a  distin- 
guished place  in  our  galaxy  of  "  stars  " ;  rose  more  and  more 
into  favour  with  each  representation,  and  ended,  as  Susan- 
nah in  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro  by  carrying  off  the  honours 
from  the  Countess  of  Mile.  Titjiens  and  the  Cherubino  of 
Mile.  Nilsson.  A  greater  achievement  than  this  last  Miss 
Kellogg's  ambition  could  not  desire.  It  was  "a  feather  in 
her  cap"  which  she  will  proudly  wear  back  to  her  native 
land  as  a  trophy  of  no  ordinary  conflict  and  success.  You 
may  be  curious  to  know  the  exact  grounds  upon  which  we 
thus  honour  your  talented  countrywoman,  and  in  stating 
them  I  shall  do  better  than  were  I  to  criticise  performances 
necessarily  familiar.  In  the  first  place,  we  recognise  in 
Miss  Kellogg  an  artist,  and  not  a  mere  singer.  People  of 
the  latter  class  are  plentiful  enough,  and  are  easily  to  be 
distinguished  by  the  way  in  which  they  "reel"  off  their 
task — a  way  brilliant,  perhaps,  but  exciting  nothing  more 
than  the  admiration  due  to  efficient  mechanism.  The 
artist,  on  the  other  hand,  shows  in  a  score  of  forms  that  he 
is  more  than  a  machine  and  that  something  of  human 
feeling  may  be  made  to  combine  with  technical  correctness. 
Herein  lies  the  great  charm  often,  perhaps,  unconsciously 
acknowledged,  of  Miss  Kellogg's  efforts.  We  know  at  once, 
listening  to  her,  that  she  sings  from  the  depth  of  a  keenly 
sensitive  artistic  nature,  and  never  did  anybody  do  this 
without  calling  out  a  sympathetic  response.  It  is  not  less 


240  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

evident  that  Miss  Kellogg  is  a  consummate  musician — that 
"rare  bird"  on  the  operatic  boards.  Hence,  her  unvarying 
correctness;  her  lively  appreciation  of  the  composer  in  his 
happiest  moments,  and  the  manner  in  which  she  adapts 
her  individual  efforts  to  the  production  of  his  intended 
effects.  Lastly,  without  dwelling  upon  the  charm  of  a 
voice  and  style  perfectly  well  known  to  you  and  ungrudg- 
ingly recognised  here,  we  see  in  Miss  Kellogg  a  dramatic 
artist  who  can  form  her  own  notion  of  a  part  and  work  it 
out  after  a  distinctive  fashion.  Anyone  able  to  do  this 
comes  with  refreshing  effect  at  a  time  when  the  lyric  stage 
is  covered  with  pale  copies  of  traditionary  excellence.  It 
was  refreshing,  for  example,  to  witness  Miss  Kellogg's 
Susannah,  an  embodiment  full  of  realism  without  coarse- 
ness and  esprit  without  exaggeration.  Susannahs,  as  a  rule, 
try  to  be  ladylike  and  interesting.  Miss  Kellogg's  waiting- 
maid  was  just  what  Beaumarchais  intended,  and  the  audi- 
ence recognised  the  truthful  picture  only  to  applaud  it. 
For  all  these  reasons,  and  for  more  which  I  have  no  space 
to  name,  we  do  honour  to  the  American  prima  donna,  so  that 
whenever  you  can  spare  her  on  your  side  we  shall  be  happy 
to  welcome  her  on  ours. 

It  was  during  this  season  in  London  that  Max 
Maretzek  and  Max  Strakosch  decided  to  go  into  opera 
management  together  in  America;  and  Maretzek  came 
over  to  London  to  get  the  company  together.  Pauline 
Lucca  and  I  were  to  be  the  prime  donne  and  one  of  our 
novelties  was  to  be  Gounod's  new  opera  Mireille, 
founded  on  the  poem  by  the  Provencal  poet,  Mistral. 
I  say  "new  opera"  because  it  was  still  unknown  in 
America;  possibly  because  it  had  been  a  failure  in 
London  where  it  had  already  been  produced.  "The 
Magnificent"  thought  it  would  be  sure  to  do  well  in 
"the  States"  on  account  of  the  wild  Gounod  vogue 
that  had  been  started  by  Faust  and  Romeo  and  Juliette. 


London  Again  241 

I  was  to  sing  it ;  and  Colonel  Mapleson  sent  Mr.  Jarrett 
with  me  to  call  on  Gounod,  who  was  then  living  in 
London,  to  get  what  points  I  could  from  the  master 
himself. 

Everybody  who  knows  anything  about  Gounod 
knows  also  about  Mrs.  Welldon.  Georgina  Welldon, 
the  wife  of  an  English  officer,  was  an  exceedingly 
eccentric  character  to  say  the  least.  Even  the  most 
straight-laced  biographers  refer  to  the  "romantic 
friendship"  between  the  composer  and  this  lady — 
which,  after  all,  is  as  good  a  way  as  any  of  tagging  it. 
She  ran  a  sort  of  school  for  choristers  in  London  and 
had,  I  believe,  some  idea  of  training  the  poor  boys  of 
the  city  to  sing  in  choirs.  Her  house  was  usually  full  of 
more  or  less  musical  youngsters.  She  was,  also,  some- 
thing of  a  musical  publisher  and  the  organiser  of  a 
woman's  musical  association,  whether  for  orchestral  or 
choral  music  I  am  not  quite  certain.  From  this  it  will 
be  seen  that  she  was,  at  heart,  a  New  Woman,  although 
her  activities  were  in  a  period  that  was  still  old-fash- 
ioned. If  she  were  in  her  prime  to-day,  she  would 
undoubtedly  be  a  militant  suffragette.  She  was  also 
noted  for  the  lawsuits  in  which  she  figured ;  one  particu- 
lar case  dragging  along  into  an  unconscionable  length 
of  time  and  being  much  commented  upon  in  the 
newspapers. 

Gounod  and  she  lived  in  Tavistock  Place,  in  the 
house  where  Dickens  lived  so  long  and  that  is  always 
associated  with  his  name.  On  the  occasion  of  our  call, 
Mr.  Jarrett  and  I  were  ushered  into  a  study,  much 
littered  and  crowded,  to  wait  for  the  great  man.  It 
proved  to  be  a  somewhat  long  drawn-out  wait,  for  the 
household  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  subdued  turmoil. 
We  could  hear  voices  in  the  hall;  some  one  was  asking 

16 


242  An  -American  Prima  Donna 

about  a  music  manuscript  for  the  publishers.  Suddenly, 
a  woman  flew  into  the  room  where  we  were  sitting. 
She  was  unattractive  and  unkempt ;  she  wore  a  rumpled 
and  soiled  kimono ;  her  hair  was  much  tousled ;  her  bare 
feet  were  thrust  into  shabby  bedroom  slippers;  and  she 
did  not  look  in  the  least  as  if  she  had  had  her  bath. 
Indeed,  I  am  expressing  her  appearance  mildly  and 
politely!  She  made  a  dive  for  the  master's  writing- 
table,  gathered  up  some  papers — sorting  and  selecting 
with  lightning  speed  and  an  air  of  authority — and  then 
darted  out  of  the  room  as  rapidly  as  she  had  entered. 
It  was,  of  course,  Mrs.  Welldon,  of  whom  I  had  heard 
so  much  and  whom  I  had  pictured  as  a  fascinating 
woman.  This  is  the  nearest  I  ever  came  to  meeting 
this  person  who  was  so  conspicuous  a  figure  of  her  day, 
although  I  have  seen  her  a  few  other  times.  When 
dressed  for  the  street  she  was  most  ordinary  looking. 
Gounod  was  in  the  house,  it  developed,  all  the  time 
that  we  waited,  although  he  could  not  attend  to  us 
immediately.  He  was  living  like  a  recluse  so  far  as 
active  professional  or  social  life  was  concerned,  but  he 
was  a  very  busy  man  and  beset  with  all  manner  of 
duties.  When  he  at  last  came  to  us,  he  greeted  us  with 
characteristic  French  courtesy.  His  manners  were 
exceedingly  courtly.  He  was  grey-haired,  charming, 
and  very  quiet.  I  think  he  was  really  shy.  With 
apologies,  he  opened  his  letters,  and,  while  giving  orders 
and  hearing  messages,  a  pretty  incident  occurred.  A 
young  girl,  very  graceful  and  sweet  looking,  came  into 
the  room.  She  hurried  forward  with  a  little,  impulsive 
movement  and,  curtseying  deeply  to  Gounod,  seized 
one  of  his  hands  in  both  of  hers  and  raised  it  to  her  lips. 
"Cher  maitref"  she  murmured  adoringly,  and  flitted 
away,  the  master  following  her  with  a  smiling  glance. 


London  .Again  243 

It  was  Nita  Giatano,  an  American,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Moncrieff,  now  the  widow  of  an  English  officer,  who 
was  studying  with  Gounod  and  living  there  and  who, 
later,  became  fairly  well  known  as  a  singer.  Then 
Gounod  proceeded  to  say  pleasant  things  about  my 
Marguerite  and  was  interested  in  hearing  that  I  was 
planning  to  do  Mireille.  We  then  and  there  went  over 
the  music  together  and  he  gave  me  an  annotated  score 
of  Mireille  with  his  autograph  and  marginal  directions. 
I  treasured  it  for  years  afterwards;  and  a  most  tragic 
fate  overtook  it  at  last.  I  sent  it  to  a  book-binder  to  be 
bound,  and,  when  the  score  came  back,  did  not  im- 
mediately look  through  it.  It  was  some  time  later, 
indeed,  that  I  opened  it  to  show  it  off  to  someone  to 
whom  I  had  been  speaking  of  the  precious  notes  and 
autograph.  I  turned  page  after  page — there  were  no 
notes.  I  looked  at  the  title  page — there  was  no  signa- 
ture. That  wretched  book-binder  had  not  scrupled 
to  substitute  a  new  and  valueless  score  for  my  beloved 
copy,  and  had  doubtless  sold  the  original,  with  Gounod's 
autograph  and  annotations,  to  some  collector  for  a 
pretty  sum.  When  I  tried  to  hunt  the  man  up,  I  found 
that  he  had  gone  out  of  business  and  moved  away.  He 
was  not  to  be  found  and  I  have  never  been  able  to 
regain  my  score. 

Mireille  was  not  given  for  several  years,  as  affairs 
turned  out,  and  I  rather  congratulated  myself  that 
this  was  so,  for  it  was  not  one  of  Gounod's  best  produc- 
tions. I  once  met  Mme.  Gounod  in  Paris,  or,  rather, 
in  its  environs,  at  a  garden  party  given  at  the  Menier — • 
the  Chocolat  Menier — place.  She  was  a  well-man- 
nered, commonplace  Frenchwoman,  rather  colourless 
and  uninteresting.  I  came  to  understand  that  even 
Georgina  Welldon,  with  her  untidy  kimono  and  her 


244  -An  American  Prima  Donna 

lawsuits,  might  have  been  more  entertaining.  I  asked 
Gounod,  on  this  occasion,  to  play  some  of  the  music  of 
Romeo  and  Juliette.  He  did  so  and,  at  the  end,  said: 

"I  see  you  like  my  children!" 

Gounod  was  chiefly  famous  in  London  for  the 
delightful  recitals  he  gave  from  time  to  time  of  his  own 
music.  He  had  no  voice,  but  he  could  render  pro- 
grammes of  his  own  songs  with  great  success.  Every- 
body was  enthusiastic  over  the  beautiful  and  intricate 
accompaniments  that  were  such  a  novelty.  He  was  so 
splendid  a  musician  that  he  could  create  a  more  charm- 
ing effect  without  a  voice  than  another  man  could  have 
achieved  with  the  notes  of  an  angel.  Poor  Gounod, 
like  nearly  all  creative  genuises,  had  a  great  many 
bitter  struggles  before  he  obtained  recognition.  Count 
Fabri  has  told  me  that,  while  Faust  (the  opera  which 
he  sold  for  twelve  hundred  dollars)  was  running  to 
packed  houses  and  the  whole  world  was  applauding  it, 
Gounod  himself  was  really  in  need.  His  music  pub- 
lisher met  him  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  wearing  a  wretched 
old  hat  and  looking  very  seedy. 

"Why  on  earth,"  cried  the  publisher,  "don't  you 
get  a  new  hat?" 

"I  did  not  make  enough  on  Faust  to  pay  for  one," 
was  the  bitter  answer. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   SEASON   WITH   LUCCA 

AFTER  the  London  season  and  before  returning  to 
America  we  went  to  Switzerland  for  a  brief  holi- 
day. During  this  little  trip  there  occurred  a  pleasing 
and  somewhat  quaint  incident.  On  the  Grunewald 
Glacier  we  met  a  young  Italian-Swiss  mountaineer  who 
earned  his  living  by  making  echoes  from  the  crags  with 
a  big  horn  and  by  the  national  art  of  yodeling.  There 
was  one  particular  echo  which  was  the  pride  of  the 
region  and,  the  day  we  were  exploring  the  glacier,  he 
did  not  call  it  forth  as  well  as  usual.  Although  he  tried 
several  times,  we  could  distinguish  very  little  echo. 
Finally,  acting  on  a  sudden  impulse,  I  stood  up  in  our 
carriage  and  yodeled  for  him,  ending  with  a  long  trill. 
The  high,  pure  air  exhilarated  me  and  made  me  feel 
that  I  could  do  absolutely  anything  in  the  world  with 
my  voice,  and  I  actually  struck  one  or  two  of  the  high- 
est and  strongest  notes  that  I  ever  sang  in  my  life  and 
one  of  the  best  trills.  The  echoes  came  rippling  back 
to  us  with  wonderful  effect. 

The  young  mountaineer  took  off  his  Tyrolean  hat 
and  bowed  to  me  deeply. 

"Ah,  mademoiselle!"  he  said,  "if  I  could  call  into 
being  such  an  echo,  my  fortune  here  would  be  made!" 

Our  stay  there  was  all  too  short  to  please  me  and  the 
day  soon  came  for  us  to  start  for  home.  We  crossed  on 

245 


246  -A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

the  Cuba  of  the  Cunard  Line,  and  a  very  poor  steamer 
she  was.  It  was  not  in  the  least  an  interesting  trip. 
There  was  no  social  intercourse,  because  all  the  passen- 
gers were  too  seasick  to  talk  or  even  to  listen.  It  seemed 
to  them  like  a  personal  affront  for  anyone  not  to  suc- 
cumb to  mal  de  mer. 

"You  mean  thing,"  one  woman  said  to  me,  "why 
are  n't  you  seasick!" 

Our  passenger  list  was,  however,  a  somewhat  strik- 
ing one.  Rubenstein  and  Wieniawski  were  on  board 
and  Clara  Doria;  Mark  Smith,  the  actor;  Edmund 
Yeats  and  Maddox,  the  editor  whom  I  had  known  in 
London,  and,  of  course,  Pauline  Lucca.  She  was  regis- 
tered as  the  Baroness  von  Raden  and  had  her  baby 
with  her — the  one  generally  believed  to  have  a  royal 
father — and,  with  her  baby  and  her  seasickness,  was 
very  much  occupied.  Her  father  and  mother  accom- 
panied her.  Lucca,  as  we  know,  had  been  a  ballerina. 
Her  toes  were  all  twisted  and  deformed  by  her  early 
years  of  dancing.  She  once  showed  them  to  me,  a  piti- 
ful record  of  the  triumphs  of  a  ballet  dancer.  There 
was  something  of  the  ballerina  in  her  temperament, 
also,  which  she  never  entirely  outgrew.  Certainly  she 
was  far  from  being  a  prima  donna  type.  An  irresist- 
ible sense  of  fun  made  her  a  most  amusing  companion ; 
and  her  charm  lay  largely  in  her  unexpectedness.  One 
never  could  guess  what  she  was  going  to  do  or  say  next. 
I  recall  an  incident  that  occurred  a  little  later  in 
Chicago  that  illustrates  this.  A  very  handsome  music 
critic — I  will  not  mention  his  name — came  behind  the 
scenes  one  night  to  see  us.  He  was  a  grave  young  man, 
with  a  brown  beard  and  beautiful  eyes,  and  his  appear- 
ance gave  a  vague  sense  of  familiarity  as  if  we  had  seen 
it  in  some  well-known  picture.  Yet  I  could  not  place 


THe  Season  -witK  I/ucca  247 

the  resemblance.  Lucca  stood  off  at  a  little  distance 
studying  him  owlishly  for  a  minute  or  two  as  he  was 
chatting  to  me  in  the  wings.  Presently  she  whisked 
up  to  him  with  her  brown  eyes  dancing  and,  looking 
up  at  him  in  the  drollest  way,  said  laughingly: 
"And  how  do  you  do,  my  Jesus  Christ!" 
On  this  voyage  home  I  saw  more  or  less  of  Edmund 
Yeats  who  kept  us  amused  with  a  steady  flow  of  witty 
talk  and  wrho  kept  up  an  equally  steady  flow  of  brandy 
and  soda,  and  of  Maddox  who  was  not  seasick  and  was 
willing  to  both  walk  and  talk.  Maddox  was  an  interest- 
ing man,  with  many  strange  stories  to  tell  of  things  and 
people  famous  and  well-known.  Among  other  person- 
alities we  discussed  Adelaide  Neilson,  whose  real  name, 
by  the  way,  was  Mary  Ann  Rogers.  I  was  speaking 
of  her  refinement  and  pretty  manners  on  the  stage,  her 
gracious  and  yet  unassuming  fashion  of  accepting 
applause,  and  her  general  air  of  good  breeding,  when 
Maddox  told  me,  to  my  great  astonishment,  that  this 
was  more  remarkable  than  I  could  possibly  imagine 
since  the  charming  actress  had  come  from  the  most 
disadvantageous  beginnings.  She  had,  in  fact,  led  a 
life  that  is  generally  characterised  as  "unfortunate" 
and  it  was  while  she  was  in  this  life  that  Maddox  first 
met  her,  and,  finding  the  girl  full  of  ambition  and 
aspirations  toward  something  higher,  had  put  her  in 
the  way  of  cultivating  herself  and  her  talents.  These 
facts  as  told  me  by  Maddox  have  always  remained  in 
my  mind,  not  in  the  least  to  Neilson's  discredit,  but 
quite  the  reverse,  for  they  only  make  her  charming  and 
artistic  achievements  all  the  more  admirable.  I  have 
always  enjoyed  watching  her.  She  was  always  just 
diffident  enough  without  being  self-conscious.  It  used 
to  be  pretty  to  see  her  from  a  box  where  I  could  look 


248  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

at  her  behind  the  scenes  compose  herself  before  taking 
a  curtain  call.  She  would  slip  into  the  mood  of  the 
part  that  she  had  just  been  playing  and  that  she  wished 
still  to  suggest  to  the  audience.  Which  reminds  me 
that  Henry  Irving  once  told  me  that  he  and  Miss  Terry 
did  exactly  this  same  thing.  "We  always  try  to  keep 
within  the  picture  even  after  the  act  is  over, "  he  said. 
"An  actor  should  never  take  his  call  in  his  own  charac- 
ter, but  always  in  that  which  he  has  been  personating." 

On  the  whole  the  particular  trip  of  which  I  am  now 
speaking  stands  out  dominantly  in  my  memory  because 
of  Rubenstein.  I  never,  never  saw  anyone  so  seasick, 
nor  anyone  so  completely  depressed  by  the  fact.  Poor 
creature!  He  swore,  faintly,  that  he  would  never  cross 
the  ocean  again  even  to  get  home!  Occasionally  he 
would  talk  feebly,  but  his  spirit  was  completely  broken. 
I  have  not  the  faintest  idea  what  Rubenstein  was  like 
when  he  was  not  seasick.  He  may  have  sparkled  con- 
summately in  a  normal  condition ;  but  he  did  not  sparkle 
on  the  Cuba. 

The  Lucca-Kellogg  season  which  followed  was  not  a 
comfortable  one,  but  it  netted  us  large  receipts.  The 
work  was  arduous,  the  operas  heavy,  and  the  manage- 
ment was  up  to  its  ears  in  contentions  and  jealousies. 
New  York  was  in  a  musical  fever  during  the  early 
seventies.  We  were  just  finding  out  how  to  be  musical 
and  it  was  a  great  and  pleasurable  excitement.  We 
were  pioneers,  and  enjoyed  it,  and  were  happy  in  not 
being  hide-bound  by  traditions  as  were  the  older 
countries,  because  we  had  none.  One  of  the  season's 
sensations  was  Senorita  Sanz,  a  Spanish  contralto, 
whose  voice  was  not  unlike  that  of  Adelaide  Phillips. 
She  was  a  beautiful  woman  and  a  good  actress,  and, 
above  all,  she  had  the  true  Spanish  temperament, 


THe  Season  witH   Lxicca  249 

languid,  exotic  and  yet  fiery.  Her  Azucena  was  a  fine 
performance;  and  she  created  a  tremendous  furore  with 
La  Paloma,  which  was  then  a  novelty.  She  used  to  sing  it 
at  Sunday  night  concerts  and  set  the  audiences  wild  with : 


Jf'  ,.    N 

?K—  S  N  &  X 

\  :  —  ^-^~ 

^- 

(0)    • 

9       I'    m      *      ' 

'*  r  ^  *  0 

3 

Cuan-do sa  -  li  de  lo  Ha-ba-na  Val-ga-me  Dios  ! 

Lucca's  operas  for  the  season  were  Faust,  Traviata, 
L1  Africaine,  Fra  Diavolo  and  La  Figlia  del  Regimento. 
Mine  were  Trovatore,  Trawata,  Crispano,  Linda  and 
Martha,  and  Don  Giovanni. .  It  was  to  Lucca's  Zerlina 
that  I  first  sang  Donna  Anna  in  Don  Giovanni;  and, 
as  in  the  big  concert  at  the  Coliseum  my  friends  had 
felt  some  doubts  as  to  the  carrying  power  of  my  voice, 
so  now  many  persons  expected  the  role  to  be  too  heavy 
for  me.  But  I  believe  I  succeeded  in  proving  the  con- 
trary. When  we  did  Le  Nozze  di  Figaro,  Lucca  was  the 
Cherubino,  making  the  quaintest  looking  of  boys  and 
much  resembling  one  of  Raphael's  cherubs  in  his 
painting  of  the  Sistine  Madonna. 

Personally,  the  relations  between  Lucca  and  myself 
were  always  amicable  enough;  but  we  had  certain 
professional  frictions,  brought  about,  indeed,  by  Jarrett 
who,  although  he  was  nothing  but  an  agent  and  an 
indifferent  one  at  that,  was  generally  regarded  as  an 
authority,  and  gave  out  critiques  to  the  newspapers. 
It  so  happened  that,  without  my  knowledge,  the 
monopoly  of  singing  in  Faust  was  in  her  contract  and 
I  was  so  prevented  from  singing  Marguerite  once  during 
our  entire  engagement.  As  Marguerite  was  my  role 
pre-eminently,  by  right  of  conquest,  in  America,  I  felt 
very  hurt  and  angry  about  the  matter  and,  at  first, 


250  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

wanted  to  resign  from  the  company,  but,  of  course, 
was  talked  out  of  that  attitude.  Jarrett  would  not, 
however,  consent  to  my  even  alternating  with  Lucca 
in  the  part;  but  possibly  he  was  wise  in  this  as  Mar- 
guerite was  never  one  of  her  best  personations.  She 
played  a  very  impulsive  and  un-German  Gretchen,  in 
spite  of  herself,  being  an  Austrian  by  birth.  One  of  the 
newspapers  said  that  "she  fell  in  love  with  Faust  at 
first  sight  and  the  Devil  was  a  useless  article!"  Her 
characterisation  of  the  part  was  somewhat  devilish  in 
itself;  her  work  was  striking,  effective,  and  piquant,  but 
not  touched  by  much  distinction.  The  difference  be- 
tween our  presentations  was  said  to  be  that  I  "con- 
vinced by  a  refined  perfection  of  detail"  and  Lucca  by 
more  vivid  qualities.  Indeed,  our  voices  and  methods 
were  so  dissimilar  that  we  never  felt  any  personal 
rivalry,  whatever  the  critics  said  to  the  contrary.  As 
one  man  justly  expressed  it:  "Neither  Lucca  nor 
Kellogg  has  the  talent  for  quarrelling."  There  were, 
of  course,  rival  factions  in  our  public.  A  man  one  night 
sent  a  note  behind  the  scenes  to  me  containing  this 
message:  " Poor  Kellogg!  you  have  no  chance  at  all  with 
Lucca!"  Two  days  later  Mme.  Lucca  came  to  me 
laughing  and  said  that  some  one  had  asked  her:  "How 
do  you  dare  to  sing  on  the  same  bill  with  Miss  Kellogg, 
the  American  favourite?" 

So  interesting  did  our  supposed  rivalry  become,  how- 
ever, as  to  excite  considerable  newspaper  comment. 
In  reply  to  one  of  these  in  The  Chicago  Tribune  a 
contributor  answered: 

To  the  Editor  of  The  Chicago  Tribune: 

SIR  :  In  your  issue  of  this  morning,  there  is  an  editorial 
headed  "Operatic  Failure,"  which  is,  in  some  respects, 
so  unjust  and  one-sided  as  to  call  for  an  immediate  protest 


Newspaper  Print  of  the  Kellogg-Lucca  Season 

Drawn  by  Jos.  Keppler 


XKe  Season  witH  I/ucca  251 

against  its  injustice.  Having  taken  your  ideas  from  The 
New  York  Herald,  and  having  no  other  source  of  informa- 
tion, it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  you  should  fall  into 
error.  For  reasons  best  known  to  Mr.  James  Gordon 
Bennett,  The  New  York  Herald,  since  the  commencement 
of  the  Jarrett-Maretzek  season,  has  undertaken  to  write  up 
Madame  Lucca  at  the  expense  of  every  other  artist  con- 
nected with  the  troupe;  and  it  is  because  of  The  Herald's 
fulsome  laudations  of  Lucca,  and  its  outrageously  untruthful 
criticisms  of  Kellogg,  that  much  of  the  trouble  has  occurred. 
Of  the  two  ladies,  Kellogg  is  by  far  the  superior  singer. 
Lucca  has  much  dramatic  force,  but,  in  musical  culture,  is 
not  equal  to  her  sister  artist,  and  there  is  no  jealousy  on  the 
part  of  either  lady  of  the  other.  The  facts  are  these :  The 
management,  taking  their  cue  from  The  Herald,  and  being 
afraid  of  the  power  of  Mr.  Bennett,  tried  to  shelve  Kellogg, 
and  the  result  has  been  that  the  dear  public  would  not 
permit  the  injustice,  and  they,  the  managers,  as  well  as  The 
Herald,  are  amazed  and  angered  at  the  result  of  their  dirty 
work. 

OPERA. 
Chicago,  Oct.  28,  1872. 

Lucca  and  I  gave  Mignon  that  season  together,  she 
playing  the  part  of  Mignon  and  I  that  of  Felina,  the 
cat.  Mignon  was  always  a  favourite  part  of  my  own, 
a  sympathetic  role  filled  with  poetry  and  sentiment. 
When  I  first  studied  it,  I  most  carefully  read  Wilhelm 
Meister,  upon  which  it  is  founded.  Regarding  the  part 
of  Felina,  I  have  often  wondered  that  people  have 
never  been  more  perceptive  than  they  appear  to  have 
been  of  the  analogy  between  her  name  and  her  qualities, 
for  she  has  all  of  the  characteristics  of  the  feline  species. 
Our  dual  star  bill  in  the  opera  was  highly  successful 
and  effective  in  spite  of  Jarrett's  continual  attacks  upon 
me  through  the  press  and  in  every  way  open  to  him. 


252  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

He  did  me  a  particularly  cruel  turn  about  Felina.  I 
started  off  in  the  role,  the  opening  night,  in  what  I  still 
believe  to  have  been  the  correct  interpretation.  Wil- 
helm  Meister  was  set  in  a  finicky  period  and  its  charac- 
ters wore  white  wigs  and  minced  about  in  their  actions. 
My  part  was  all  comedy  and  the  gestures  should  have 
been  little  and  dainty  and  somewhat  constrained.  So 
I  played  it,  until  I  saw  this  criticism,  written  by  one  of 
Jarrett's  creatures,  "Miss  Kellogg  has  no  freedom  of 
movement  in  the  role  of  Felina,  etc." 

My  mother,  always  anxious  for  me  to  profit  by 
criticism  that  might  have  value,  said  that  perhaps  the 
man  was  right.  At  any  rate,  between  the  two,  I  be- 
came so  self-conscious  that  the  next  time  I  sang  Felina 
I  could  not  get  into  the  mood  of  it  at  all.  Not  to  seem 
restricted  in  gesture,  I  waved  my  arms  as  if  I  were  in 
Norma;  and  the  performance  was  a  very  poor  one  in 
consequence.  Yet,  in  spite  of  Jarrett's  machinations, 
it  was  said  of  me  in  the  press  of  the  day: 

"...  Her  rendering  of  Felina  was  a  magnificent 
success.  From  the  first  scene  on  the  balcony  until  her 
light-hearted  laughter  dies  away,  she  is  a  vision  of 
beauty  and  grace,  appealing  to  every  high  aesthetic 
emotion  and  charming  all  hearts  with  her  sweetness." 

Furthermore,  an  eminent  Shakespearean  critic,  writ- 
ing then,  said: 

As  an  actress,  Miss  Kellogg's  superiority  cannot  justly 
be  questioned.  Some  things  are  exquisitely  represented  by 
the  fair  Swede,  Miss  Nilsson,  such  as  the  dazed  look,  the 
stupefaction  caused  by  a  great  shock,  like  that  of  the  death 
of  Valentin,  for  instance;  such  as  the  madness  to  which 
the  distracting  conflict  of  many  selfish  feelings  and  passions 
leads.  But  she  is  always  circumscribed  by  her  own  con- 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  in  Mignon 

From  a  photograph  by  Mora 


XHe  Season  witH  Lvicca  253 

sciousness.  Her  soul  never  passes  beyond  that  limit — 
never  surrounds  her — filling  the  stage  and  infecting  the 
audience  with  a  magnetic  atmosphere  which  is  a  part  of 
herself,  or  herself  transfused,  if  such  expressions  be  allow- 
able. In  this  respect  Miss  Kellogg  is  very  different  and 
greatly  superior.  Her  sympathies  are  large.  She  con- 
ceives well  the  effects  of  the  warmer  and  more  generous 
passions  upon  the  person  who  feels  them.  She  can,  by  the 
force  of  her  imagination,  abandon  herself  to  these  influences, 
and,  by  her  artistic  skill,  give  them  apt  expression.  She 
can  cease  to  be  self-conscious,  and  feel  but  the  fictitious 
consciousness  of  the  personage  whom  she  represents,  while 
the  force  of  her  own  illusion  magnetises  her  auditors  till 
they  respond  like  well-tuned  harps  to  every  chord  of 
feeling  which  she  strikes. 

Such  notices,  such  critiques,  were  compensations! 
Taken  as  a  whole,  Felina  was  a  successful  part  for  me; 
largely  on  account  of  that  piece  of  glittering  generalities, 
the  Polonaise.  In  this,  according  to  one  critic,  "she 
aroused  the  admiration  of  her  auditors  to  a  condition 
that  was  really  a  tempestuous  furore. "  So,  as  I  say, 
there  were  compensations  for  Jarrett's  unkindnesses. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ENGLISH  OPERA 

THE  idea  of  giving  opera  in  English  has  always 
interested  me.  I  never  could  understand  why 
there  were  any  more  reasons  against  giving  an  English 
version  of  Carmen  in  New  York  than  against  giving  a 
French  version  of  Die  Freischutz  in  Paris  or  a  German 
version  of  La  Belle  Helene  in  Berlin.  To  be  sure,  it  goes 
without  saying,  from  a  purist  point  of  view  it  is  a  patent 
truth,  that  no  libretto  is  ever  so  fine  after  it  has  been 
translated.  Not  only  does  the  quality  and  spirit  of  the 
original  evaporate  in  the  process  of  translating,  but, 
also,  the  syllables  come  wrong.  Who  has  not  suffered 
from  the  translations  of  foreign  songs  into  which  the 
translator  has  been  obliged  to  introduce  secondary 
notes  to  fit  the  extra  syllables  of  the  clumsily  adapted 
English  words?  These  are  absolute  objections  to  the 
performance  of  any  operas  or  songs  in  a  language  other 
than  the  one  to  which  the  composer  first  set  his  music. 
Wagner  in  French  is  a  joke;  so  is  Goethe  in  Italian. 
A  musician  of  my  acquaintance  once  spoke  of  Strauss' s 
Salome  as  a  case  in  point,  although  it  is  a  queerly 
inverse  one.  "Oscar  Wilde's  French  poem  or  play— 
whichever  you  like  to  call  it—  '  he  said,  "was  trans- 
lated into  German;  and  it  was  this  translation,  or  so  it  is 
generally  understood,  that  Strauss  set  to  music.  When 
the  opera — a  French  opera  in  spirit,  taken  from  a 

254 


English  Opera  255 

French  text  that  was  most  Frenchly  treated — was 
given  with  Oscar  Wilde's  original  French  words,  the 
music  often  seemed  to  go  haltingly,  as  though  it  had 
been  adopted  to  phrases  for  which  it  had  not  been  com- 
posed. "  Several  notable  singers  have  recently  entered 
a  protest  against  giving  opera  in  English.  Miss  Garden 
— admirable  and  spontaneous  artist  though  she  be — • 
once  wrote  an  article  in  which  she  cited  Madame  Butter- 
fly as  an  example  of  the  inartistic  effects  of  English 
librettos.  I  do  not  recall  her  exact  words,  but  they 
referred  to  the  scene  in  which  Dick  Pinkerton  offers 
Sharpless  a  whiskey  and  soda.  Miss  Garden  said,  If  I 
remember  correctly,  that  the  very  words  "whiskey  and 
soda"  were  inartistic  and  spoiled  the  poetry  and  pictur- 
esqueness  of  the  act.  Personally,  I  do  not  see  that  it  was 
the  words  that  were  inartistic,  but,  rather,  the  introduc- 
tion of  whiskey  and  soda  at  all  into  a  grand  opera.  My 
point  is  that  such  objections  obtain  not  more  strin- 
gently against  English  translations  than  against  Ger- 
man, French,  or  Italian  translations.  Furthermore, 
after  all  is  said  that  can  be  said  against  translations 
into  whatsoever  language,  the  fact  remains  that  coun- 
tries and  races  are  not  nearly  so  different  as  they 
pretend  to  be;  and  a  human  sentiment,  a  dramatic 
situation,  or  a  lovely  melody  will  permeate  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  Frenchman,  an  Englishman,  or  a  German 
in  approximately  the  same  manner  and  in  the  same 
length  of  time.  Adaptations  and  translations  are 
merely  different  means,  poorer  or  better  as  the  case 
may  be,  of  facilitating  such  assimilations;  and,  so  soon 
as  the  idea  reaches  the  audience,  the  audience  is  going 
to  receive  it  joyfully,  no  matter  what  nation  it  comes 
from  or  through  what  medium : — that  is,  if  it  is  a  good 
idea  to  begin  with. 


256  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

Possibly  this  may  be  a  little  beside  the  point;  but, 
at  least,  it  serves  to  introduce  the  subject  of  English 
opera — or,  rather,  foreign  grand  opera  given  in  English 
—the  giving  of  which  was  an  undertaking  on  which  I 
embarked  in  1873.  I  became  my  own  manager  and, 
with  C.  D.  Hess,  organised  an  English  Opera  Company 
that,  by  its  success,  brought  the  best  music  to  the 
comprehension  of  the  intelligent  masses.  I  believe  that 
the  enterprise  did  much  for  the  advancement  of  musical 
art  in  this  country;  and  it,  besides,  gave  employment 
to  a  large  number  of  young  Americans,  several  of  whom 
began  their  careers  in  the  chorus  of  the  company  and 
soon  advanced  to  higher  places  in  the  musical  world. 
Joseph  Maas  was  one  of  the  singers  whom  this  company 
did  much  for;  and  George  Conly  was  another.  The 
former  at  first  played  small  parts,  but  his  chance  came 
to  him  as  Lorenzo  in  Fra  Diavolo,  when  he  made  a  big 
hit,  and,  eventually,  he  returned  to  England  and  be- 
came her  greatest  oratorio  tenor.  I  myself  made  the 
versions  of  the  standard  operas  used  by  us  during  the 
first  season  of  English  opera,  translating  them  newly 
and  directly  from  the  Italian  and  the  French  and,  in 
some  instances,  restoring  the  text  to  a  better  condition 
than  is  found  in  English  opera  generally.  My  enter- 
prise met  with  a  great  deal  of  criticism  and  discussion. 
Usually,  public  opinion  and  the  opinion  of  the  press 
were  favourable.  One  of  my  staunch  supporters  was 
Will  Davis,  the  husband  of  Jessie  Bartlett  Davis.  In 
The  Chicago  Tribune  he  wrote: 

Unless  the  public  can  understand  what  is  sung  in  opera 
or  oratorio  recital,  song  or  ballad,  no  more  than  a  passing 
interest  can  be  awakened  in  the  music-loving  public.  I 
do  not  agree  with  those  who  claim  that  language  or  thought 


English  Opera  257 

is  a  secondary  consideration  to  the  enjoyment  of  vocal 
music.  I  believe  that  a  superior  writer  of  lyrics  can  fit 
words  to  the  music  of  foreign  operas  that  will  not  only 
be  sensible  but  singable.  I  agree  with  The  Tribune  that 
opera  in  the  English  language  has  never  had  a  fair  show, 
but  I  claim  that  the  reason  for  this  is  because  of  the  bad 
translations  that  have  been  given  to  the  artists  to  sing. 

After  our  success  had  become  assured,  one  of  the 
press  notices  read: 

Never,  in  this  country,  has  English  opera  been  so  credit- 
ably produced  and  so  energetically  managed  as  by  the 
present  Kellogg-Hess  combination.  All  the  business  details 
being  supervised  by  Mr.  Hess,  one  of  the  longest-headed 
and  hardest-working  men  of  business  to  be  found  in  even 
this  age  and  nation,  are  thoroughly,  systematically  and 
promptly  attended  to;  while  all  the  artistic  details,  being 
under  the  direct  personal  care  of  Miss  Clara  Louise  Kellogg, 
confessedly  the  best  as  well  as  the  most  popular  singer 
America  has  produced,  are  brought  to  and  preserved  at 
the  highest  attainable  musical  standard.  The  performers 
embraced  in  the  Hess-Kellogg  English  Opera  Company 
comprise  several  artists  of  the  first  rank.  The  names  of 
Castle,  Maas,  Peakes,  Mrs.  Seguin,  Mrs.  Van  Zandt,  and 
Miss  Montague  are  familiar  as  household  words  to  the 
musical  world,  while  the  repertoire  embraces  not  only  all 
the  old  established  favourites  of  the  public,  but  many  of 
the  most  recent  or  recherche  novelties,  such  as  Mignon, 
and  The  Star  of  the  North,  in  addition  to  such  genuine 
English  operas  as  The  Rose  of  Castille. 

During  the  three  seasons  of  our  English  Opera  Com- 
pany, we  put  on  a  great  number  of  operas  of  all  schools, 
from  The  Bohemian  Girl  to  The  Flying  Dutchman.  The 
former  is  pretty  poor  stuff — cheap  and  insipid — I  never 
liked  to  sing  it.  But — the  houses  it  drew!  People 

17 


258  j\n.  American  Prima  Donna 

loved  it.  I  believe  there  would  be  a  large  and  senti- 
mental public  ready  for  it  to-day.  Its  extraneous  matter, 
the  two  or  three  popular  ballads  that  had  been  intro- 
duced, formed  a  part  of  its  attraction,  perhaps.  Cur 
Devil's  Hoof  in  The  Bohemian  Girl  was  Ted  Seguin 
who  became  quite  famous  in  the  part.  His  wife  Zelda 
Seguin  was  our  contralto  and  they  were  among  the 
earliest  people  to  travel  with  The  Beggar's  Opera  and 
other  primitive  performances.  George  A.  Conly  was 
our  basso  and  a  fine  one.  He  was  a  printer  by  trade  and 
he  had  his  first  chance  with  us  at  the  Globe  Theatre  in 
Boston.  He  was  our  Deland,  too,  in  The  Flying  Dutch- 
man. Eventually,  he  was  drowned;  and  I  gave  a  benefit 
for  his  widow.  Maurice  Grau  and  Hess  had  gone  to 
London  to  engage  singers  for  my  English  Opera  Com- 
pany and  had  selected,  among  others,  Wilfred  Morgan 
for  first  tenor  and  Joseph  Maas  for  second  tenor. 
Morgan  had  been  singing  secondary  roles  for  some  time 
at  Covent  Garden.  On  our  opening  night  of  Faust  he 
gave  out  with  a  sore  throat,  and  Maas  took  his  place 
successfully.  William  Carlton  once  told  me  that  when 
he  was  just  starting  out  he  bought  the  theatrical 
wardrobe  of  Alberto  Lawrence,  a  baritone,  and  was 
looking  at  himself  in  a  mirror,  dressed  in  one  of  his 
second  costumes,  in  the  green  room  of  the  Academy  of 
Music  early  during  our  English  season,  when  Morgan 
came  up  to  him  and  said : 

"Are  you  going  on  in  those  old  rags?" 

Carlton  had  to  go  on  in  them.  The  critics  next  day 
gave  him  a  couple  of  columns  of  praise;  but  Morgan, 
whose  wardrobe  was  gorgeous,  was  a  complete  failure 
in  his  debut.  Our  manager  had  finally  to  tell  him  that 
he  could  be  second  tenor  or  resign.  In  six  weeks  he  was 
drawing  seventy  dollars  less  salary  than  Carlton,  who 


EnglisH  Opera  259 

was  a  baritone  and  a  beginner.  Carlton  said  that  about 
this  time  Wilfred  Morgan  came  up  to  him  exclaiming, 

"Well,  Bill,  I  wish  I  had  your  voice  and  you  had  my 
clothes!" 

William  Carlton  was  a  young  Englishman,  only 
twenty-three  when  he  joined  us;  but  he  was  already 
married  and  had  two  children.  When  we  were  rehears- 
ing The  Bohemian  Girl,  in  the  scene  where  the  stolen 
daughter  is  recognised  and  Carlton  had  to  take  me  in 
his  arms,  he  said: 

"I  ought  to  kiss  you  here." 

"Not  lower  than  this!1'  said  I,  pointing  to  my  fore- 
head. He  was  much  amused.  Indeed,  he  was  always 
laughing  at  my  mother  and  me  for  our  prudish  ways; 
and  my  not  marrying  was  always  a  joke  between  us. 

"  It  's  a  sin, "  he  declared  once,  when  we  were  talking 
on  a  train,  "a  woman  who  would  make  such  a  perfect 
wife!" 

"Louise,"  interrupted  my  mother  sternly,  "don't 
talk  so  much!  You  '11  tire  your  voice!" 

My  good  mother!  She  was  always  ruffling  up  like  an 
indignant  hen  about  me.  In  one  scene  of  another 
opera,  I  remember,  the  villain  and  I  had  been  playing 
rather  more  strenuously  than  usual  and  he  caught  my 
arm  with  some  force.  I  staggered  a  little  as  I  came  off 
the  stage  and  my  mother  flew  at  him. 

"Don't  you  dare  touch  my  daughter  so  roughly," 
she  cried,  much  annoyed. 

Mr.  Carlton  has  paid  me  a  nice  tribute  when  writing 
of  those  days  and  of  me  at  that  time.  He  has  said: 

I  have  the  most  grateful  memory  of  the  sympathetic 
assistance  I  received  from  the  gifted  prima  donna  when  I 
arrived  in  this  country  under  the  management  of  Maurice 
Grau  and  C.  D.  Hess,  who  were  conducting  the  business 


260  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

details  of  the  Kellogg  Grand  Opera  Company.  Like  many 
Englishmen,  I  was  quite  unprepared  for  the  evidences  of 
perfection  which  characterised  the  production  of  opera  in 
the  United  States  and,  as  I  had  not  yet  attained  my  twenty- 
fourth  year,  I  was  somewhat  awed  by  the  importance  of 
the  roles  and  the  position  I  was  imported  to  fulfil.  It  was 
in  a  great  measure  due  to  the  gracious  help  I  received  from 
Miss  Kellogg  that,  at  my  debut  at  the  Academy  of  Music, 
Philadelphia,  as  Valentine  in  Faust  to  her  Marguerite,  I 
achieved  a  success  which  led  up  to  my  renewing  the  engage- 
ment for  four  consecutive  years. 

In  putting  on  grand  opera  in  English  I  had,  in  each 
case,  the  tradition  of  two  countries  to  contend  with; 
but  I  endeavoured  to  secure  some  uniformity  of  style 
and  usually  rehearsed  them  all  myself,  sitting  at  the 
piano.  The  singers  were,  of  course,  hide-bound  to  the 
awful  translations  that  were  institutional  and  to  them 
inevitable.  None  of  them  would  have  ever  considered 
changing  a  word,  even  for  the  better.  The  translation 
of  Mignon  was  probably  the  most  completely  revolu- 
tionary of  the  many  translations  and  adaptations  I 
indulged  in.  I  shall  never  forget  one  fearfully  clumsy 
passage  in  Trovatore. 

"To  the  handle, 
To  the  handle, 
To  the  handle 
Strike  the  dagger!" 

There  were  two  modifications  possible,  either  of 
which  was  vastly  preferable,  and  without  actually 
changing  a  word. 

"Strike  the  dagger, 
Strike  the  dagger, 
Strike  the  dagger 
To  the  handle!" 


English  Opera  261 

or,  which  I  think  was  the  better  way, 

"Strike  the  dagger 
To  the  handle, 
Strike  the  dagger 
To  the  handle!" 

a  simple  and  legitimate  repetition  of  a  phrase.  This 
is  a  case  in  illustration  of  the  meaningless  absurdity 
and  unintelligibility  of  the  average  libretto. 

Those  were  the  days  in  which  I  devoutly  appreciated 
my  general  sound  musical  training.  The  old  stand-bys, 
Fra  Diavolo,  Trovatore,  and  Martha  were  all  very  well. 
Most  singers  had  been  reared  on  them  from  their 
artistic  infancy.  But,  for  example,  The  Marriage  of 
Figaro  was  an  innovation.  To  it  I  had  to  bring  my  best 
experience  and  judgment  as  cultivated  in  our  London 
productions;  and  we  finally  gave  a  very  creditable 
English  performance  of  it.  Then  there  were,  besides, 
the  new  operas  that  had  to  be  incepted  and  created 
and  toiled  over: — The  Talisman  and  Lily  o 'Killarney 
among  others.  The  Talisman  by  Balfe,  an  opera  of  the 
Meyerbeerian  school,  was  first  produced  at  the  Drury 
Lane  in  London,  with  Nilsson,  Campanini,  Marie  Roze, 
Rota,  and  others.  Our  presentation  of  it  was  less  pre- 
tentious, naturally,  but  we  had  an  excellent  cast,  with 
Joseph  Maas  as  Sir  Kenneth,  William  Carlton  as  Coeur 
de  Lion,  Mme.  Loveday  as  Queen  Berengaria,  and 
Charles  Turner  as  De  Vaux.  I  was  Edith  Plantaganet. 
When  the  opera  was  first  put  on  in  London,  under  the 
direction  of  Sir  Jules  Benedict,  it  was  called  The  Knight 
of  the  Leopard.  Later,  it  was  translated  into  Italian 
under  the  title  of  //  Talismano,  and  from  that  finally 
re-translated  by  us  and  given  the  name  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  work  on  which  it  was  based.  It  was  not  only 


262  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

Balfe's  one  real  grand  opera,  but  was  also  his  last 
important  work.  Lily  o'Killarney,  by  Sir  Jules  Bene- 
dict, was  not  a  striking  novelty.  It  had  a  graceful  duet 
for  the  basso  and  tenor,  and  one  pretty  solo  for  the 
prima  donna — "I'm  Alone" — but,  otherwise,  it  did 
not  amount  to  much.  But  we  scored  in  it  because  of 
our  good  artistry.  Our  company  was  a  good  one. 
Parepa  Rosa  did  tremendous  things  with  her  English 
opera  tournees;  but  I  honestly  think  our  work  was  more 
artistic  as  well  as  more  painstaking.  There  were  not 
many  of  us;  but  we  did  our  best  and  pulled  together; 
and  I  was  very  happy  in  the  whole  venture.  Benedict's 
Lily  o'Killarney  was  written  particularly  for  me,  and 
was  inspired  by  Colleen  Bawn,  Dion  Boucicault's  big 
London  success.  I  have  always  understood  that 
Oxenford  wrote  the  libretto  of  that — a  fine  one  as 
librettos  go — but  Grove's  Dictionary  says  that  Bouci- 
cault  helped  him. 

Perhaps  this  is  as  good  a  place  as  any  in  which  to 
mention  Sir  George  Grove  and  his  dictionary.  When 
I  was  in  London  I  was  told  that  young  Grove — he  was 
not  "Sir"  then — was  compiling  a  dictionary;  and,  not 
having  a  very  exalted  idea  of  his  ability,  I  am  free  to  con- 
fess that,  in  a  measure,  I  snubbed  him.  In  his  copiously 
filled  and  padded  dictionary,  he  punished  me  by  giving 
me  less  than  half  a  column ;  considerably  less  space  than 
is  devoted  in  the  corresponding  column  to  one  Michael 
Kelly  "composer  of  wines  and  importer  of  music!"  It 
is  an  accurate  paragraph,  however,  and  he  heaped  coals 
of  fire  on  my  head  by  one  passage  that  is  particularly 
suitable  to  quote  in  a  chapter  on  English  opera: 

She  organised  an  English  troupe,  herself  superintending 
the  translation  of  the  words,  the  mise  en  scdne,  the  training 


English  Opera  263 

of  the  singers  and  the  rehearsals  of  the  chorus.  Such  was 
her  devotion  to  the  project  that,  in  the  winter  of  '74-*75, 
she  sang  no  fewer  than  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  nights. 
It  is  satisfactory  to  hear  that  the  scheme  was  successful. 
Miss  Kellogg's  musical  gifts  are  great  .  .  .  She  has  a 
remarkable  talent  for  business  and  is  never  so  happy  as 
when  she  is  doing  a  good  or  benevolent  action. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  determine  to  my  own 
satisfaction  whether  the  "remarkable  talent  for  busi- 
ness" was  intended  as  a  compliment  or  not!  The  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  record  is  quite  correct,  a 
number  of  performances  that  tried  my  endurance  to 
the  utmost;  but  I  loved  all  the  work.  This  particular 
venture  seemed  more  completely  my  own  than  anything 
on  which  I  had  yet  embarked. 

We  put  on  The  Flying  Dutchman,  at  the  Academy  of 
Music  (New  York),  and  it  was  a  tremendous  undertak- 
ing. It  was  another  case  of  not  having  any  traditions 
nor  impressions  to  help  us.  No  one  knew  anything 
about  the  opera  and  the  part  of  Senta  was  as  unex- 
plored a  territory  for  me  as  that  of  Marguerite  had 
been.  One  thing  I  had  particular  difficulty  in  learning 
how  to  handle  and  that  was  Wagner's  trick  of  long 
pauses.  There  is  a  passage  almost  immediately  after 
the  spinning  song  in  The  Flying  Dutchman  during  w-hich 
Senta  stands  at  the  door  and  thinks  about  the  Flying 
Dutchman,  preceding  his  appearance.  Then  he  comes, 
and  they  stand  still  and  look  at  each  other  while  a  spell 
grows  between  them.  She  recognises  Vanderdecken 
as  the  original  of  the  mysterious  portrait;  and  he  is 
wondering  whether  she  is  the  woman  fated  to  save  him 
by  self-sacrifice.  The  music,  so  far  as  Siegfried  Behrens, 
my  director  at  the  time,  and  I  could  see,  had  no  mean- 
ing whatever.  It  was  just  a  long,  intermittent  mumble, 


264  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

continuing  for  eighteen  bars  with  one  slight  interrup- 
tion of  thirds.  I  had  not  yet  been  entirely  converted 
to  innovations  such  as  this  and  did  not  fully  appreciate 
the  value  of  so  extreme  a  pause.  I  knew,  of  course, 
that  repose  added  dignity;  but  this  seemed  too  much. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Behrens, "  said  I,  "what's  the 
public  going  to  do  while  we  stand  there?  Can  we  hold 
their  interest  for  so  long  while  nothing  is  happening?" 

Behrens  thought  there  might  be  someone  at  the 
German  Theatre  who  had  heard  the  opera  in  Germany 
and  who  could,  therefore,  give  us  suggestions;  but  no 
one  could  be  found.  Finally  Behrens  looked  up  Wag- 
ner's own  brochure  on  the  subject  of  his  operas  and 
came  to  me,  still  doubtful,  but  somewhat  reassured. 

"Wagner  says,"  he  explained,  "not  to  be  disturbed 
by  long  intervals.  If  both  singers  could  stand  abso- 
lutely still,  this  pause  would  hold  the  public  double  the 
length  of  time. " 

We  tried  to  stand  "absolutely  still."  It  was  an 
exceedingly  difficult  thing  to  do.  In  roles  that  have 
tense  moments  the  whole  body  has  to  hold  the  tension 
rigidly  until  the  proper  psychological  instant  for  emo- 
tional and  physical  relaxation.  The  public  is  very 
keen  to  feel  this,  without  knowing  how  or  why.  A 
drooping  shoulder  or  a  relaxed  hand  will  "let  up"  an 
entire  situation.  The  first  time  I  sang  Senta  it  seemed 
impossible  to  hold  the  pause  until  those  eighteen  bars 
were  over.  "I  have  got  to  hold  it!  I  have  got  to  hold 
it!"  I  kept  saying  to  myself,  tightening  every  muscle 
as  if  I  were  actually  pulling  on  a  wire  stretched  between 
myself  and  the  audience.  I  almost  auto-hypnotised 
myself;  which  probably  helped  me  to  understand  the 
Norwegian  girl's  own  condition  of  auto-hypnotism! 
An  inspiration  led  me  to  grasp  the  back  of  a  tall  Dutch 


Eng'IisH  Opera  265 

chair  on  the  stage.  That  chair  helped  me  greatly  and, 
as  affairs  turned  out,  I  held  the  audience  quite  as 
firmly  as  I  held  the  chair! 

Afterwards  I  learned  the  wonderful  telling-power  of 
these  "waits"  and  the  great  dignity  that  they  lend  to 
a  scene.  There  is  no  hurry  in  Wagner.  His  work  is 
full  of  pauses  and  he  has  done  much  to  give  leisure  to 
the  stage.  When  I  was  at  Bayreuth — that  most  beauti- 
ful monument  to  genius — I  met  many  actors  from  the 
Theatre  Francais  who  had  journeyed  there,  as  to  a 
Mecca,  to  study  this  leisurely  stage  effect  among 
others. 

Our  production  was  a  fair  one  but  not  elaborate. 
We  had,  I  remember,  a  very  good  ship,  but  there  were 
many  shortcomings.  There  is  supposed  to  be  a  trans- 
figuration scene  at  the  end  in  which  Senta  is  taken  up 
to  heaven ;  but  this  was  beyond  us  and  /  was  never  thus 
rewarded  for  my  devotion  to  an  ideal!  I  liked  Senta's 
clothes  and  make-up.  I  used  to  wear  a  dark  green  skirt, 
shining  chains,  and  a  wonderful  little  apron,  long  and  of 
white  woollen.  For  hair,  I  wore  Marguerite's  wig 
arranged  differently.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  put  on 
a  production  of  Die  Fliegende  Hollander  now !  There  is 
just  one  artist,  and  only  one,  whom  I  would  have  play 
the  Dutchman — and  that  is  Renaud,  for  the  reason, 
principally,  that  he  would  have  the  necessary  repose 
for  the  part.  I  had  understudies  as  a  matter  of  course. 
One  of  them  was  wall-eyed;  and,  on  an  occasion  when 
I  was  ill,  she  essayed  Senta.  William  Carlton,  was,  as 
usual,  our  Dutchman,  and  he  had  not  been  previously 
warned  of  Senta's  infirmity.  He  came  upon  it  so  un- 
expectedly, indeed,  and  it  was  so  startling  to  him,  that 
he  sang  the  whole  opera  without  looking  at  her  for 
fear  that  he  would  break  down! 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ENGLISH, OPERA  (Continued} 

NO  account  of  our  English  Opera  would  be  complete 
without  mention  of  Mike.  He  was  an  Irish  lad 
with  all  the  wit  of  his  race,  and  his  head  was  of  a  par- 
ticularly classic  type.  He  was  only  sixteen  when  he 
joined  us,  but  he  became  an  institution,  and  I  kept 
track  of  him  for  years  afterwards.  His  duties  were 
somewhat  arbitrary,  and  chiefly  consisted  of  calling  at 
the  dressing-room  of  the  chorus  each  night  after  the 
opera  with  a  basket  to  collect  the  costumes.  Beyond 
this,  his  principal  occupation  was  watching  my  scenes 
and  generally  pervading  the  performances  with  genuine 
interest.  He  particularly  favoured  the  third  act  of 
Faust,  I  remember;  and  absolutely  considered  himself 
a  part  of  my  career,  constantly  making  use  of  the 
phrase  "Me  and  Miss  Kellogg." 

One  of  the  operas  we  gave  in  English  was  my  old 
friend  The  Star  of  the  North.  It  was  quite  as  much  a 
success  in  English  as  it  had  been  in  the  original.  We 
chose  it  for  our  gala  performance  in  Washington  when 
the  Centennial  was  celebrated,  and  my  good  friends, 
President  and  Mrs.  Grant,  were  in  the  audience.  The 
King  of  Hawaii  was  also  present,  with  his  suite,  and 
came  behind  the  scenes  and  paid  me  extravagant  com- 
pliments. His  Hawaiian  Majesty  sent  me  lovely 
heliotropes,  I  remember, — my  favourite  flower  and  my 

266 


English  Opera  (Continued)  267 

favourite  perfume.  At  one  performance  of  The  Star  of 
the  North  at  a  matinee  in  Booth's  Theatre,  New  York, 
there  occurred  an  incident  that  was  reminiscent  of  my 
London  experience  with  Sir  Michael  Costa's  orchestra. 
It  was  in  the  third  act,  the  camp  scene.  There  is  a 
quartette  by  Peter,  Danilowitz  and  two  vivandieres 
almost  without  accompaniment  in  the  tent  on  the  stage, 
and  I,  as  Catherine,  had  to  take  up  the  note  they  left 
and  begin  a  solo  at  its  close.  The  orchestra  was  sup- 
posed to  chime  in  with  me,  a  simple  enough  matter  to  do 
if  they  had  not  fallen  from  the  key.  It  is  surprising 
how  relative  one's  pitch  is  when  suddenly  appealed  to. 
Even  a  very  trained  ear  will  often  go  astray  when  some 
one  gives  it  a  wrong  keynote.  Music  more  than  almost 
any  other  art  is  dependent;  every  tone  hangs  on  other 
tones.  That  particular  quartette  was  built  on  a  musical 
phrase  begun  by  one  of  the  sopranos  and  repeated  by 
each.  She  started  on  the  key.  The  mezzo  took  it  up  a 
shade  flat.  The  tenor,  taking  the  phrase  from  the  mezzo, 
dropped  a  little  more,  and  when  the  basso  got  through 
with  it,  they  were  a  full  semitone  lower.  Had  I  taken 
my  attaqiie  from  their  pitch,  imagine  the  situation  when 
the  orchestra  came  in !  My  heart  sank  as  I  saw  ahead 
of  us  the  inevitable  discord.  It  came  to  the  last  note.  I 
allowed  a  half -second  of  silence  to  obliterate  their  false 
pitch.  Then  I  concentrated — and  took  up  my  solo  in  the 
original  and  correct  key.  That  "absolute  pitch"  again! 
Behrens  expressed  his  amazement  after  the  curtain  fell. 

The  company,  after  that,  was  never  tired  of  experi- 
menting with  my  gift.  It  became  quite  a  joke  with 
them  to  cry  out  suddenly,  at  any  sort  of  sound — a 
whistle,  or  a  bell : 

"Now,  what  note  is  that?  What  key  was  that  in, 
Miss  Kellogg?" 


268  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

Most  of  our  travelling  on  these  big  western  tours  of 
opera  was  very  tiresome,  although  we  did  it  as  easily 
as  we  could  and  often  had  special  cars  put  at  our 
disposal  by  railroad  directors.  We  were  still  looked 
upon  as  a  species  of  circus  and  the  townspeople  of  the 
places  we  passed  through  used  to  come  out  in  throngs 
at  the  stations.  I  have  said  so  much  about  the  poor 
hotels  encountered  at  various  times  while  on  the  road 
that  I  feel  I  ought  to  mention  the  disastrous  effect 
produced  once  by  a  really  good  hotel.  It  was  at  the 
end  of  our  first  English  Opera  season  and,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  we  were  all  worn  out  with  our  experiences, 
we  proceeded  to  give  an  auxiliary  concert  trip.  We  had 
a  special  sleeper  in  which,  naturally,  no  one  slept  much; 
and  by  the  time  we  reached  Wilkesbarre  we  were  even 
more  exhausted.  The  hotel  happened  to  be  a  good 
one,  the  rooms  were  quiet,  and  the  beds  comfortable. 
Every  one  of  us  went  promptly  to  bed,  not  having  to 
sing  until  the  next  night,  and  William  Carlton  left  word 
at  the  office  that  he  was  going  to  sleep:  "and  don't 
call  me  unless  there  's  a  fire!"  he  said.  In  strict 
accordance  with  these  instructions  nobody  did  call 
him  and  he  slept  twenty-four  hours.  When  he  awoke 
it  was  time  to  go  to  the  theatre  for  the  performance 
and — he  found  he  could  n't  sing !  He  had  slept  so 
much  that  his  circulation  had  become  sluggish  and  he 
was  as  hoarse  as  a  crow.  Consequently,  we  had  to 
change  the  programme  at  the  last  moment. 

Carlton,  like  most  nervous  people,  was  very  sensitive 
and  easily  put  out  of  voice,  even  when  he  had  not  slept 
twenty-four  consecutive  hours.  Once  in  Trovatore  he 
was  seized  with  a  sharp  neuralgic  pain  in  his  eyes  just 
as  he  was  beginning  to  sing  "II  Balen"  and  we  had  to  stop 
in  the  middle  of  it.  During  this  same  performance,  an 


EnglisK  Opera  (Continued)  269 

unlucky  one,  Wilfred  Morgan,  who  was  Manrico,  made 
both  himself  and  me  ridiculous.  In  the  finale  of  the 
first  act  of  the  opera,  the  Count  and  Manrico,  rivals 
for  the  love  of  Leonora,  draw  their  swords  and  are 
about  to  attack  each  other,  when  Leonora  interposes 
and  has  to  recline  on  the  shoulder  of  Manrico,  at 
which  the  attack  of  the  Count  ceases.  Morgan  was 
burly  of  build  and  awkward  of  movement  and,  for  some 
reason,  failed  to  support  me,  and  we  both  fell  heavily  to 
the  floor.  It  is  so  easy  to  turn  a  serious  dramatic 
situation  into  ridicule  that,  really,  it  was  very  decent 
indeed  of  our  audience  to  applaud  the  contretemps 
instead  of  laughing. 

Ryloff,  an  eccentric  Belgian,  was  our  musical  director 
for  a  short  time.  He  was  exceedingly  fond  of  beer 
and  used  to  drink  it  morning,  noon,  and  night, — 
especially  night.  Even  our  rehearsals  were  not  sacred 
from  his  thirst.  In  the  middle  of  one  of  our  full  dress 
rehearsals  he  suddenly  stopped  the  orchestra,  laid 
down  his  baton,  and  said  to  the  men: 

"Boys,  I  must  have  some  beer!" 

Then  he  got  up  and  deliberately  went  off  to  a  nearby 
saloon  while  we  awaited  his  good  pleasure. 

I  have  previously  mentioned  what  a  handsome  and 
dashing  Fra  Diavolo  Theodore  Habelmann  was,  and 
naturally  other  singers  with  whom  I  sang  the  opera 
later  have  suffered  by  comparison.  In  discussing  the 
point  with  a  young  girl  cousin  who  was  travelling  with 
me,  we  once  agreed,  I  remember,  that  it  was  a  great 
pity  no  one  could  ever  look  the  part  like  our  dear  old 
Habelmann.  Castle  was  doing  it  just  then,  and  doing 
it  very  well  except  for  his  clothes  and  general  make-up. 
But  he  was  so  extremely  sensitive  and  yet,  in  some 
ways,  so  opinionated,  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  him 


270  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

plainly  that  he  did  not  look  well  in  the  part.  At  last, 
my  cousin  conceived  the  brilliant  scheme  of  writing 
him  an  anonymous  letter,  supposed  to  be  from  some 
feminine  admirer,  telling  him  how  splendid  and  wonder- 
ful and  irresistible  he  was,  but  also  suggesting  how  he 
could  make  himself  even  more  fascinating.  A  descrip- 
tion of  Habelmann's  appearance  followed  and,  to  our 
great  satisfaction,  our  innocent  little  plot  worked  to  a 
charm.  Castle  bought  a  new  costume  immediately 
and  strutted  about  in  it  as  pleased  as  Punch.  He  really 
did  present  a  much  more  satisfactory  appearance, 
which  was  a  comfort  to  me,  as  it  is  really  so  deplorably 
disillusioning  to  see  a  man  looking  frumpy  and  unattrac- 
tive while  he  is  singing  a  gallant  song  like: 


Proud  -  ly       and      wide my     stanc3  -  ard 


f  1 


-I 1/ — 

flies       O'er  dar  -  ing  heads,  a       no  -  ble    band  ! 

Naturally  these  tours  brought  me  all  manner  of 
adventures  that  I  have  long  since  forgotten — little 
incidents  "along  the  road"  and  meetings  with  famous 
personages.  Among  them  stand  out  two  experiences, 
one  grave  and  one  gay.  The  former  was  an  occasion 
when  I  went  behind  the  scenes  during  a  performance  of 
Henry  VIII  to  see  dear  Miss  Cushman  (it  must  have 
been  in  the  early  seventies,  but  I  do  not  know  the 
exact  date),  who  was  playing  Queen  Katherine. 
She  asked  me  if  I  would  be  kind  enough  to  sing  the 
solo  for  her.  I  was  very  glad  to  be  able  to  do  so,  of 
course,  and  so,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  complied. 


EnglisH  Opera  (Continued)  271 

I  have  wondered  since  how  many  people  in  front  ever 
knew  that  it  was  I  who  sang  Angels  Ever  Bright  and 
Fair  off  stage,  during  the  scene  in  which  the  poor, 
wonderful  Queen  was  dying!  The  other  experience 
of  these  days  which  I  treasure  was  my  meeting  with 
Eugene  Field.  It  was  in  St.  Louis,  where  Field  was  a 
reporter  on  one  of  the  daily  papers.  He  came  up  to  the 
old  Lindell  Hotel  to  interview  me;  but  that  was  some- 
thing I  would  not  do — give  interviews  to  the  press — so 
my  mother  went  down  to  the  reception  room  with  her 
sternest  air  to  dismiss  him.  She  found  the  waiting 
young  man  very  mild-mannered  and  pleasant,  but  she 
said  to  him  icily: 

"My  daughter  never  sees  newspaper  men." 

"Oh,"  said  he,  looking  surprised,  "I  'm  a  singer  and 
I  thought  Miss  Kellogg  might  help  me.  I  want  to 
have  my  voice  trained."  (This  is  the  phrase  used 
generally  by  applicants  for  such  favours.)  Mother 
looked  at  the  young  man  suspiciously  and  pointed  to 
the  piano. 

"Sing  something,"  she  commanded. 

Field  obediently  sat  down  at  the  instrument  and 
sang  several  songs.  He  had  a  pleasing  voice  and  an 
expressive  style  of  singing,  and  my  mother  promptly 
sent  for  me.  We  spent  some  time  with  him  in  conse- 
quence, singing,  playing,  and  talking.  It  was  an  excel- 
lent "beat"  for  his  paper,  and  neither  my  mother  nor 
I  bore  him  any  malice,  we  had  liked  him  so  much, 
when  we  read  the  interview  next  day.  After  that  he 
came  to  see  me  whenever  I  sang  where  he  happened 
to  be  and  we  always  had  a  laugh  over  his  "interview" 
with  me — the  only  one,  by  the  way,  obtained  by  any 
reporter  in  St.  Louis. 

On  one   concert   tour — a  little   before   the   English 


272  .A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

Opera  venture — we  had  arrived  late  one  afternoon  in 
Toledo  where  the  other  members  of  the  company  were 
awaiting  me.  Petrelli,  the  baritone,  met  me  at  the 
train  and  said  immediately: 

"There  is  a  strange-looking  girl  at  the  hotel  waiting 
for  you  to  hear  her  sing. " 

"Oh,  dear,"  I  exclaimed,  "another  one  to  tell  that 
she  has  n't  any  ability!" 

"She  's  very  queer  looking,"  Petrelli  assured  me. 

As  I  went  to  my  supper  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  very- 
unattractive  person  and  decided  that  Petrelli  was 
right.  She  was  exceedingly  plain  and  colourless,  and 
had  a  large  turned-up  nose.  After  supper,  I  went  to 
my  room  to  dress,  as  I  usually  did  when  on  tour,  for  the 
theatre  dressing-rooms  were  impossible,  and  presently 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  the  girl  presented 
herself. 

She  was  poorly  clad.  She  owned  no  warm  coat,  no 
rubbers,  no  proper  clothing  of  any  sort.  I  questioned 
her  and  she  told  me  a  pathetic  tale  of  privation  and 
struggle.  She  lived  by  travelling  about  from  one  hotel 
to  the  next,  singing  in  the  public  parlour  when  the 
manager  would  permit  it,  accompanying  herself  upon 
her  guitar,  and  passing  around  a  plate  or  a  hat  after- 
wards to  collect  such  small  change  as  she  could. 

"I  sang  last  night  here,"  she  told  me,  "and  the 
manager  of  the  hotel  collected  eleven  dollars.  That 's 
all  I  've  got — and  I  don't  suppose  he  '11  let  me  have 
much  of  that!" 

Of  course  I,  who  had  been  so  protected,  was  horrified 
by  all  this.  I  could  not  understand  how  a  girl  could 
succeed  in  doing  that  kind  of  thing.  She  told  me, 
furthermore,  that  she  took  care  of  her  mother,  brothers, 
and  sisters. 


EnglisH  Opera   (Continued}  273 

"I  must  go  to  the  post-office  now  and  see  if  there  's 
a  letter  from  mother!"  she  exclaimed  presently,  jump- 
ing up.  It  was  pouring  rain  outside. 

"Show  me  your  feet!"  I  said. 

She  grinned  ruefully  as  she  exhibited  her  shoes, 
but  she  was  off  the  next  moment  in  search  of  her  letter. 
When  she  came  back  to  the  hotel,  I  got  hold  of  her 
again,  gave  her  some  clothes,  and  took  her  to  the 
concert  in  my  carriage.  After  I  had  sung  my  first  song 
she  rushed  up  to  me. 

"Let  me  look  down  your  throat, "  she  cried  excitedly, 
"I  've  got  to  see  where  it  all  comes  from!" 

After  the  concert  we  made  her  sing  for  us  and  our 
accompanist  played  for  her.  She  asked  me  frankly  if  I 
thought  she  could  make  her  living  by  her  voice  and  I 
said  yes.  Her  poverty  and  her  desire  to  get  on  naturally 
appealed  to  me,  and  I  was  instrumental  in  raising  a 
subscription  for  her  so  that  she  could  come  East.  My 
mother  immediately  saw  the  hotel  proprietor  and  ar- 
ranged that  what  money  he  had  collected  the  night 
before  should  be  turned  over  to  her.  It  has  been  said 
that  I  am  responsible  for  Emma  Abbott's  career  upon 
the  operatic  stage,  but  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  deny  the 
allegation.  My  idea  was  that  she  intended  to  sing  in 
churches,  and  I  believe  she  did  so  when  she  first  came 
to  New  York.  She  was  the  one  girl  in  ten  thousand  who 
was  really  worth  helping,  and  of  course  my  mother  and 
I  helped  her.  When  we  returned  from  my  concert  tour, 
I  introduced  her  to  people  and  saw  that  she  was 
properly  looked  out  for.  And  she  became,  as  every  one 
knows,  highly  successful  in  opera — appearing  in  many 
of  my  own  roles.  In  a  year's  time  from  when  I  first  met 
her,  Emma  Abbott  was  self-supporting.  She  was  a 
girl  of  ability  and  I  am  glad  that  I  started  her  off  fairly, 

18 


274  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  would  have  got  on 
anyway,  whether  I  had  done  anything  for  her  or  not. 
Her  way  to  success  might  have  been  a  longer  way, 
unaided,  but  she  would  have  succeeded.  She  was  eaten 
up  with  ambition.  Yet  there  is  much  to  respect  in 
such  a  dogged  determination  to  succeed.  Of  course, 
she  was  never  particularly  grateful  to  me.  Of  all  the 
girls  I  have  helped — and  there  have  been  many — only 
one  has  ever  been  really  grateful,  and  she  was  the  one 
for  whom  I  did  the  least.  Emma  wrote  me  a  flowery 
letter  once,  full  of  such  sentences  as  "when  the  great 
Prima  Donna  shined  on  me,"  and  "I  was  almost  in 
heaven,  and  I  can  remember  just  how  you  sang  and 
looked,"  and  "never  can  I  forget  all  your  goodness 
to  me."  But  in  the  little  ways  that  count  she  never 
actually  evinced  the  least  appreciation.  Whenever  we 
were  in  any  way  pitted  against  each  other,  she  showed 
herself  jealous  and  ungenerous.  She  made  enemies  in 
general  by  her  lack  of  tact,  and  never  could  get  on  in 
London,  for  instance,  although  in  her  day  the  feeling 
there  for  American  singers  was  becoming  most  kindly. 
Emma  Abbott  did  appalling  things  with  her  art,  of 
which  one  of  the  mildest  was  the  introduction  into 
Faust  of  the  hymn  Nearer  My  God  to  Thee!  It  was  in 
Italy  that  she  did  it,  too.  I  believe  she  introduced  it  to 
please  the  Americans  in  the  audience,  many  of  whom 
applauded,  although  the  Italians  pointedly  did  not. 
And  yet  she  was  always  trying  to  "purify"  the  stage 
and  librettos !  I  have  always  felt  about  Emma  Abbott 
that  she  had  too  much  force  of  character.  Another  thing 
that  I  never  liked  about  her  was  the  manner  in  which 
she  puffed  her  own  successes.  She  was  reported  to  have 
made  five  times  more  than  she  actually  did;  but,  at 
that,  her  earnings  were  considerable,  for  she  would 


English  Opera  (Continued)  275 

sacrifice  much — except  the  character — to  money -get- 
ting. Indeed,  she  was  a  very  fine  business  woman. 

I  have  spoken  about  George  Conly's  tragic  death  by 
drowning  and  of  the  benefit  the  Kellogg-Hess  English 
Opera  Company  gave  for  his  widow.  Conly  had  also 
sung  with  Emma  Abbott  and,  when  the  benefit  was 
given,  she  and  I  appeared  on  the  same  programme. 
She  knew  my  baritone,  Carlton,  and  sent  for  him  before 
the  performance.  She  explained  that  she  wanted  him 
to  appear  on  the  bill  with  her  in  Maritana  and,  also,  to 
see  that  all  donations  from  my  friends  and  colleagues 
were  sent  to  her,  so  that  her  collection  should  be  larger 
than  mine.  Carlton  explained  to  her  that  he  was  sing- 
ing with  Miss  Kellogg  and  so  would  send  any  money 
that  he  could  collect  to  her.  It  seems  incredible  that 
any  one  could  do  so  small  an  action,  and  I  can  only  con- 
sider it  one  of  many  little  attempts  to  be  spiteful  and 
to  show  me  that  my  erstwhile  protegee  was  now  at  the 
"top  of  the  ladder. " 

Her  thirst  for  profits  finally  was  the  indirect  means 
of  her  death.  When  Utah  was  still  a  territory,  the 
town  of  Ogden,  where  many  travelling  companies  gave 
concerts,  was  very  primitive.  The  concert  hall  had  no 
dressing-room  and  was  cold  and  draughty.  I  always 
refused  outright  to  sing  in  such  theatres,  or  else  dressed 
in  my  hotel  and  drove  to  the  concert  warmly  wrapped 
up.  Emma  Abbott  was  warned  that  the  stage  in  the 
concert  hall  of  the  town  of  Ogden  was  bitterly  cold. 
The  house  had  sold  well,  however,  and  the  receipts 
were  considerable.  Emma  dressed  in  an  improvised 
screened-off  dressing-room,  and,  having  a  severe  cold 
to  begin  with,  she  caught  more  on  that  occasion,  and 
suddenly  developed  a  serious  case  of  pneumonia  from 
which  she  died,  a  victim  to  her  own  indiscretion. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AMATEURS — AND  OTHERS 

IN  the  seventies  New  York  was  interesting  musically, 
chiefly  because  of  its  amateurs.  This  sounds  some- 
thing like  a  paradox,  but  at  that  time  New  York  had  a 
collection  of  musical  amateurs  who  were  almost  as 
highly  cultivated  as  professionals.  It  was  a  set  that 
was  extremely  interesting  and  quite  unique;  and  which 
bridged  in  a  wonderful  way  the  traditional  gulf  between 
art  and  society. 

Those  of  us  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  know 
New  York  then  look  about  us  with  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment now.  It  seems,  with  our  standards  of  an  earlier 
generation,  as  if  there  were  no  true  social  life  to-day, 
just  as  there  are  left  no  great  social  leaders.  As  for 
music — but  perhaps  it  behooves  a  retired  prima  donna 
to  be  discreet  in  making  comparisons. 

Mrs.  Peter  Ronalds;  Mrs.  Samuel  Barlow;  her 
daughter  Elsie,  who  became  Mrs.  Stephen  Henry  Olin; 
May  Callender;  Minnie  Parker — the  granddaughter  of 
Mrs.  Hill  and  later  the  wife  of  M.  de  Neufville; — these 
and  many  others  were  the  amateurs  who  combined 
music  and  society  in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  great 
French  hostesses  and  originators  of  salons.  Mrs.  Bar- 
low was  in  advance  of  everybody  in  patronising  music. 
She  was  cultivated  and  artistic,  had  travelled  a  great 
deal  abroad,  and  had  acquired  a  great  many  charming 

276 


.Amateurs — and  OtKers  277 

foreign  graces  in  addition  to  her  own  good  American 
brains  and  breeding,  and  her  fine  natural  social  tact. 
When  I  returned  to  New  York  after  a  sojourn  on  the 
other  side,  she  came  to  see  me  one  day,  and  said : 

"Louise,  you  've  been  away  so  much  you  don't  know 
what  our  amateurs  are  doing.  I  want  you  to  come  to 
my  house  to-night  and  hear  them  sing. " 

Like  all  professionals,  I  was  a  bit  inclined  to  turn 
up  my  nose  at  the  very  word  "amateur, "  but  of  course 
I  went  to  Mrs.  Barlow's  that  evening,  and  I  have  rarely 
spent  a  more  enjoyable  three  hours.  Elsie  Barlow  sang 
delightfully.  She  had  a  limited  voice,  but  an  unusual 
musical  intelligence;  I  have  seldom  heard  a  public 
singer  give  a  piece  of  music  a  more  delicate  and  dis- 
criminating interpretation.  Then  Miss  May  Callender 
sang  "  Nobile  Signer  "  from  the  Huguenots,  and  aston- 
ished me  with  her  artistic  rendering  of  that  aria.  Miss 
Callender  could  have  easily  been  an  opera  singer,  and  a 
distinguished  one,  if  she  had  so  chosen.  Eugene  Oudin, 
a  Southern  baritone,  also  sang  with  charming  effect. 
Minnie  Parker,  an  eminent  connoisseur  in  music,  had 
her  turn.  She  sang  "Bel  Raggio  "  from  Semit -amide  with 
fine  execution  and  all  the  Rossini  traditions.  And  I 
must  not  forget  to  mention  Fanny  Reed,  Mrs.  Paran 
Stevens 's  sister,  who  sang  very  agreeably  an  aria  from 
//  Barbiere.  Altogether  it  was  a  most  startling  and 
illuminating  evening,  and  I  was  proud  of  my  country 
and  of  a  society  that  could  produce  such  amateurs. 

Mrs.  Peter  Ronalds  was  another  charming  singer  of 
that  group;  as  was,  also,  Mrs.  Moulton,  who  was  Lillie 
Greenough  before  her  marriage.  Both  had  delightful 
and  well  cultivated  voices.  Mrs.  Moulton  had  studied 
abroad,  but  for  the  most  part  the  amateurs  of  that  day 
were  purely  American  products. 


278  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

I  often  visited  Mrs.  Barlow  at  her  country  place  at 
Glen  Cove,  L.  I.  She  was  the  most  tactful  of  hostesses, 
and  in  her  house  there  was  no  fuss  or  formality, 
nothing  but  kind  geniality  and  courtesy.  She  was  the 
first  hostess  in  the  United  States  to  ask  her  women 
guests  to  bring  their  maids;  and  she  never  once  has 
asked  me  to  sing  when  I  was  there.  I  did  sing,  of  course, 
but  she  was  too  well-bred  to  let  me  feel  under  the 
slightest  obligation.  American  hostesses  are  certainly 
sometimes  very  odd  in  this  connection.  I  have  men- 
tioned Fanny  Reed  and  Mrs.  Stevens  in  Boston,  and 
the  time  I  had  to  play  "Tommy  Tucker"  and  sing  for 
my  supper ;  and  I  am  now  reminded  of  another  occasion 
even  more  unpardonable,  one  that  made  me  indirectly 
quite  a  bit  of  trouble. 

Once  upon  a  time  when  I  was  visiting  in  Chicago, 
and  was  being  made  much  of  as  an  American  prima 
donna  freshly  arrived  from  European  triumphs,  some 
old  friends  of  my  father  gave  me  a  reception.  I  had 
been  for  nearly  fourteen  months  abroad,  and  had  come 
back  with  the  associations  and  manners  of  the  best 
people  of  the  older  countries:  and  this  I  particularly 
mention  to  suggest  what  a  shock  my  treatment  was  to 
me. 

On  the  day  of  the  reception  I  had  one  of  my  worst 
sick  headaches.  I  did  not  want  to  go,  naturally,  but 
the  husband  of  the  woman  giving  the  reception  called 
for  me  and  begged  that  I  would  show  myself  there,  if 
only  for  a  few  moments.  My  mother  also  urged  me  to 
make  an  effort  and  go.  I  made  it — and  went.  In  view 
of  what  afterwards  occurred,  I  want  to  say  that  my 
costume  was  a  black  velvet  gown  created  by  Worth, 
with  a  heavy,  long,  handsome  coat  and  a  black  velvet 
hat.  When  I  reached  the  house  I  was  so  ill  that  I 


.Amateurs — and  OtHers  279 

could  not  stand  at  the  door  with  my  hostess  to  receive 
the  guests,  but  remained  seated,  hoping  that  I  would 
not  groan  aloud  with  the  throbbing  of  my  head. 

The  ladies  began  arriving,  and  nearly  every  one  of 
them  was  in  full  evening  dress — in  the  afternoon!  Mrs. 
Marshall  Field,  I  remember,  came  in  an  elaborate 
point  lace  shawl,  and  no  hat. 

I  had  not  been  there  half  an  hour  before  I  was  asked 
to  sing!  I  had  brought  no  music,  there  was  no  accom- 
panist, and  I  was  so  dizzy  that  I  could  hardly  see  the 
keys  of  the  piano,  yet,  as  the  request  was  not  altogether 
the  fault  of  my  hostess,  I  did  my  best,  playing  some 
sort  of  an  accompaniment  and  singing  something — very 
badly,  I  imagine.  Then  I  went  home  and  to  bed. 

That  episode  was  served  up  to  me  for  eight  years. 
I  never  went  to  Chicago  without  reading  some  reference 
to  it  in  the  newspapers,  and  my  friends  have  told  me 
that  years  later  it  was  still  discussed  with  bitterness. 
It  was  stated  that  I  was  "ungracious,"  "rude,"  and 
that  I  had  "insulted  the  guests  by  my  plain  street 
attire"  (shade  of  the  great  Worth!);  that  I  only  sang 
once  and  then  with  no  attempt  to  do  my  best;  that  I 
did  not  eat  the  elaborate  refreshments;  did  not  rise 
from  my  chair  when  people  were  presented  to  me;  and 
left  the  house  inside  an  hour,  although  the  reception 
was  given  for  me.  The  bitterest  attack  was  an  article 
printed  in  one  of  the  morning  papers,  an  article  written 
by  a  woman  who  had  been  among  the  guests.  I  never 
answered  that  or  any  other  of  the  attacks  because  the 
host  and  hostess  were  old  friends  and  felt  very  badly 
about  the  affair;  but  I  have  a  memory  of  Chicago  that 
Trill  go  with  me  to  the  grave.  It  was  very  different 
with  the  New  York  hostesses  of  wThom  Mrs.  Barlow, 
Z.Irs.  Ronalds,  and  Mrs.  Gilder  were  the  representatives. 


280  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

By  them  a  singer  was  treated  as  a  little  more,  not 
less,  than  an  ordinary  human  being! 

O  you  unfortunate  people  of  a  newer  day  who  have 
not  the  memory  of  that  enchanting  meeting-ground  in 
East  Fifteenth  Street: — the  delightful  Gilder  studio, 
the  rebuilding  of  which  from  a  carriage  house  into  a 
studio-home  was  about  the  first  piece  of  architectural 
work  done  by  Stanford  White.  There  was  one  big, 
beautiful  room,  drawing-room  and  sitting-room  com- 
bined, with  a  fine  fireplace  in  it.  Many  a  time  have  I 
done  some  scene  from  an  opera  there,  in  the  firelight, 
to  a  sympathetic  few.  Everybody  went  to  the  Richard 
Watson  Gilders' — at  least,  everybody  who  was  worth 
while.  They  were  in  New  York  already  the  power 
that  they  remained  for  so  many  years.  Some  pedantic 
enthusiast  once  said  of  them  that,  "The  Gilders  were 
empowered  by  divine  right  to  put  the  cachet  of  recogni- 
tion upon  distinction." 

Miss  Jeannette  Gilder  came  into  my  life  as  long  ago 
as  1869.  I  was  singing  in  a  concert  in  Newark  and  she 
was  in  the  wings,  listening  to  my  first  song.  My 
mother  and  my  maid  were  near  her  and,  when  I  came 
off  the  stage,  as  we  were  trying  to  find  a  certain  song 
for  an  encore,  the  pile  of  music  fell  at  her  feet.  Promptly 
the  tall  young  stranger  said: 

"Please  let  me  hold  them  for  you." 

Her  whole  personality  expressed  a  species  of  beaming 
admiration.  I  looked  at  her  critically;  and  from  this 
small  service  began  our  friendship. 

The  Gilders  were  then  living  in  Newark.  The 
father,  who  was  a  Chaplain  in  the  4Oth  New  York 
Volunteers,  died  during  the  Civil  War.  His  sons, 
Richard  Watson  Gilder  and  William  H.  Gilder,  were 
also  soldiers  in  the  Civil  War.  The  Richard  Watson 


.Amateurs — and  OtKers  281 

Gilders  were  married  in  1874.  Mrs.  Gilder  was  Miss 
Helena  de  Kay,  granddaughter  of  Joseph  Rodman 
Drake,  who  was  the  author  of  The  Culprit  Fay. 

I  met  many  interesting  people  at  the  Fifteenth  Street 
studio.  Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  I  remember  well.  She 
was  then  Mrs.  Hunt,  long  before  she  had  married  Mr. 
Jackson  or  had  written  Ramona.  She  was  a  most 
pleasing  personality,  just  stout  enough  to  be  genuinely 
genial.  And  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett  I  first 
met  there,  about  the  time  her  Lass  o'Lowrie's  appeared, 
a  story  we  all  thought  most  impressive.  George  Cable 
was  discovered  by  the  Gilders,  like  so  many  other 
literary  lights,  and  he  and  I  used  to  sing  Creole  melodies 
before  their  big  fireplace.  His  voice  was  queer  and 
light,  without  colour,  but  correct  and  well  in  tune.  He 
had  only  one  bit  of  colour  in  him  and  that — the  poetry 
of  his  nature — he  gave  freely  and  exquisitely  in  his 
tales  of  Creole  life.  At  a  much  later  time  I  saw  some- 
thing of  the  old  French  Quarter  of  New  Orleans  of 
which  he  wrote,  the  whole  spirit  of  which  was  so  lovely. 
I  also  first  met  John  Alexander  at  the  Gilders'  after  he 
came  back  from  Paris ;  and  John  La  Farge,  who  brought 
there  with  him  Okakura,  the  Japanese  art  connoisseur. 
That  was  when  I  first  met  Okakura;  and  on  the  same 
occasion  he  was  introduced  to  Modjeska,  she  and  I 
being  the  first  stage  people  he  had  ever  met  socially. 

Later,  in  '79~'8o,  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  Gilders 
in  Paris,  where  they  had  a  studio  in  the  Quartier  Latin. 
At  that  time,  Mr.  Gilder  arranged  for  Millet's  autobio- 
graphy which  first  made  him  widely  known  in  America ; 
and  in  their  Paris  studio  I  met  Sargent  and  Bastien 
Le  Page  and  many  other  notables.  I  recall  how  becom- 
ingly Rodman  Gilder — then  three  or  four  years  old — 
was  always  dressed,  in  "  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  "  fashion 


282  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

long  before  the  days  of  his  young  lordship.  It  was  at 
this  same  period  that  I  went  to  Fontainebleau  to  study 
the  Barbizon  School  and  met  the  son  of  Millet,  who 
was  trying  to  paint  and  never  succeeded. 

Speaking  of  the  Gilders  reminds  me,  albeit  indirectly, 
of  Helena  Modjeska,  whom  I  first  saw  in  Sacramento, 
playing  Adrienne  Lecouvreur.  I  was  simply  enchanted 
and  thought  I  had  never  seen  such  delicate  and  yet 
such  forcible  acting.  One  reason  why  I  was  so  greatly 
impressed  was  that  I  had  acquired  the  foreign  standard 
of  acting,  and  had  been  much  disturbed  when  I  came 
home  to  find  such  lack  of  elegance  and  ease  upon  the 
stage.  She  had  the  foreign  manner — the  grace  and, 
at  the  same  time,  the  authority  of  the  great  French  and 
German  players;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  ought 
to  be  heard  by  the  big  critics.  So  I  wrote  home  to 
Jeannette  Gilder  in  New  York  an  enthusiastic  account 
of  this  actress  who  was  being  wasted  on  the  Sacramento 
Valley.  The  public-spirited  efforts  of  the  Gilders  in 
promoting  anything  artistic  was  so  well  and  so  long 
known  that  it  is  almost  unnecessary  to  add  that  they 
interested  themselves  in  the  Polish  artist  and  secured 
for  her  an  opportunity  to  play  in  the  East.  She  came, 
saw,  and  conquered;  and  I  shall  always  feel,  therefore, 
that  I  was  definitely  instrumental  in  launching  Mod- 
jeska in  theatrical  New  York. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  I  said  to  Jeannette  Gilder. 

There  was  always  something  very  odd  to  me  about 
Helena  Modjeska.  I  never  liked  her  personally  half 
as  much  as  I  did  as  an  actress.  But  she  certainly  was 
a  wonderful  actress.  I  once  met  John  McCullough  and 
talked  with  him  about  Modjeska,  and  he  told  me  that 
she  first  acted  in  Polish  to  his  English — Ophelia  to  his 
Hamlet — out  West  somewhere,  I  think  it  was  in  San 


.A.mate\irs — and  OtKers  283 

Francisco.  He  said  that  he  had  been  the  first  to  urge 
her  to  learn  English,  and  he  was  most  enthusiastic  about 
the  wonderful  effect  she  created  even  at  that  early  time. 
As  I  had  seen  her  in  Sacramento  during,  approxi- 
mately, the  same  period,  I  could  discuss  her  with  him 
sympathetically  and  intelligently. 

Although  I  never  personally  liked  Helena  Modjeska, 
I  have  liked  as  well  as  known  many  stage  folk  and  have 
had,  first  and  last,  many  real  friends  among  them.  It 
was  my  good  fortune  to  know  the  elder  Salvini  in 
America.  He  happened  to  be  stopping  at  the  same 
hotel.  He  looked  like  a  successful  farmer;  a  very  plain 
man, — very.  He  told  me,  among  other  interesting 
things,  that  no  matter  how  small  his  part  happened  to 
be,  he  always  played  each  succeeding  act  in  a  stronger 
colour,  maintaining  a  steady  crescendo,  so  that  the  last 
impression  of  all  was  the  climax.  I  remember  him  in 
Othello,  particularly  his  delicate  and  lovely  silent  act- 
ing. When  Desdemona  came  in  and  told  the  court  how 
he  had  won  her,  Salvini  only  looked  at  her  and  spoke 
but  the  one  word:  "Desdemona!" — but  the  way  he 
said  it  "made  the  tears  rise  in  your  heart  and  gather 
to  your  eyes. " 

Irving  and  Terry,  always  among  my  close  friends,  I 
first  met  in  London,  at  the  McHenrys'  house  in  Holland 
Park.  At  that  time  the  McHenrys'  Sunday  night 
dinners  were  an  institution.  Later,  when  they  came  to 
America,  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  them;  and  I  remember 
Ellen  Terry  saying  once,  after  a  luncheon  given  by  me 
at  Delmonico's,  "What  a  splendid  woman  Jeannette 
Gilder  is!  You  know —  '  and  she  gave  me  a  rueful 
glance — "I  am  always  wrong  about  men, — but  seldom 
about  women!" 

Dear  Ellen  Terry !    She  has  always  been  the  freshest, 


284  .An  American  Priixxa  Donna 

the  most  wholesome,  and  the  most  spontaneous  person- 
ality on  the  stage:  a  sweet  and  candid  woman,  with  a 
sound,  warm  heart  and  a  great  genius.  At  Lady 
Macmillan's  a  number  of  people,  most  of  them  literary, 
were  discussing  that  deadly  worthy  and  respectable 
actress  Madge  Robertson — Mrs.  Kendall.  The  morals 
of  stage  people  was  the  subject,  and  Mrs.  Kendall  was 
cited  as  an  example  of  propriety.  One  of  the  women 
present  spoke  up  from  her  corner: 

"Well,"  said  she,  "all  I  can  say  is  that  if  I  were 
giving  a  party  for  young  girls  I  would  steer  very  clear 
of  Mrs.  Kendall  and  ask  Miss  Terry  instead.  The 
Kendall  lady  does  nothing  but  tell  objectionable  stories 
that  lead  to  the  glorification  of  her  own  purity,  but  you 
will  never  in  a  million  years  hear  an  indelicate  word 
from  the  lips  of  Ellen  Terry!" 

The  only  complaint  Henry  Irving  had  to  make 
against  New  York  was  that  he  "had  no  one  to  play 
with."  He  insisted,  and  quite  justly,  too,  that  New 
York  had  no  leisure  class:  that  cultivated  Bohemia, 
the  playground  for  people  of  intellectual  tastes  and 
varied  interests,  did  not  exist  in  New  York.  He  used 
to  say  that  after  the  theatre,  and  after  supper,  he 
could  not  find  anybody  at  his  club  who  would  discuss 
with  him  either  modern  drama  or  the  old  dramatic 
traditions;  or  give  him  any  exchange  of  ideas  or  intelli- 
gent comradeship. 

He  and  I  had  many  delightful  talks,  and  I  wish 
now  that  I  had  made  notes  of  the  things  he  told  me 
about  stagecraft.  He  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about 
stage  lighting,  a  subject  he  was  for  ever  studying  and 
about  which  he  was  always  experimenting.  It  was  his 
idea  to  do  away  with  shadows  upon  the  stage,  and  he 
finally  accomplished  his  effect  by  lighting  the  wings 


Ellen  Terry 

From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 


A.mate\irs — and  OtKers  285 

very  brilliantly.  Until  his  radical  reforms  in  this 
direction  the  theatres  always  used  to  be  full  of  grotesque 
masses  of  light  and  shade.  To-day  the  art  of  lighting 
may  be  said  to  have  reached  perfection. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  things  about  Henry 
Irving  was  the  way  in  which  he  made  use  of  the  small- 
est trifles  that  might  aid  him  in  getting  his  effects.  He 
knew  perfectly  his  own  limitations,  and  was  always 
seeking  to  compensate  for  them.  For  example,  he  was 
utterly  lacking  in  any  musical  sense;  like  Dr.  Johnson, 
he  did  not  even  possess  an  appreciation  of  sweet  sounds, 
and  did  not  care  to  go  to  either  concerts  or  operas. 
But  he  knew  how  important  music  was  in  the  theatre, 
and  he  knew  instinctively — with  that  extraordinary 
stage-sense  of  his — what  would  appeal  to  an  audience, 
even  if  it  did  not  appeal  to  him.  So,  if  he  went  any- 
where and  heard  a  melody  or  sequence  of  chords  that 
he  thought  might  fit  in  somewhere,  he  had  it  noted 
down  at  once,  and  collected  bits  of  music  in  this  way 
wherever  he  went.  Sometime,  he  felt,  the  need  for 
that  particular  musical  phrase  would  arrive  in  some 
production  he  was  putting  on,  and  he  would  be  ready 
with  it.  That  was  a  wonderful  thing  about  Irving — 
he  was  always  prepared. 

Speaking  of  Irving  and  his  statement  about  the  lack 
of  a  cultivated  leisure  class  in  New  York,  reminds  me 
of  the  Vanderbilts,  who  were  shining  examples  of  this 
very  lack,  for  they  were  immensely  wealthy  and  yet 
did  not  half  understand,  at  that  time,  the  possibilities 
of  wealth.  William  H.  Vanderbilt  was  always  my  very 
good  friend.  His  father,  Cornelius,  the  founder  of  the 
family,  used  to  say  of  him  that  "Bill  hadn't  sense 
enough  to  make  money  himself — he  had  to  have  it  left 
to  him!"  The  old  man  was  wont  to  add,  "Bill's  no 


286  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

good  anyway!"  The  Vanderbilts  were  plain  people  in 
those  days,  but  had  the  kindest  hearts.  "Bill"  took  a 
course  in  practical  railroading,  filling  the  position  of 
conductor  on  the  Hudson  River  Railroad,  from  which 
"job"  he  had  just  been  promoted  when  I  first  knew 
him.  He  did  turn  out  to  be  some  "good"  in  spite  of 
his  father's  pessimistic  predictions. 

My  mother  and  I  spent  many  summers  at  "Clare- 
hurst,"  my  country  home  at  Cold  Spring  on  the  Hudson. 
The  Vanderbilts'  railroad,  the  New  York  Central,  ran 
through  Cold  Spring,  so  that  my  Christmas  present 
from  William  H.  Vanderbilt  each  year  was  an  annual 
pass.  He  began  sending  it  to  me  alone,  and  then 
included  my  mother,  until  it  became  a  regular  institu- 
tion. We  saw  something  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vanderbilt 
at  Saratoga  also,  which  was  then  a  fashionable  resort, 
before  Newport  supplanted  it  with  a  higher  standard  of 
formality  and  extravagance.  I  remember  I  once  started 
to  ask  William  H.  Vanderbilt's  advice  about  investing 
some  money. 

"You  may  know  of  some  good  security—  "  I  began. 

"I  don't!    I  don't!"  he  exclaimed  with  heat. 

Then  he  shook  his  finger  at  me  impressively,  saying: 

"Let  me  tell  you  something  that  my  father  always 
said,  and  don't  you  ever  forget  it.  He  said  that  'it 
takes  a  smart  man  to  make  money,  but  a  damned  sight 
smarter  one  to  keep  it! ' ' 

My  place  at  Cold  Spring  was  where  I  went  to  rest 
between  seasons,  a  lovely  place  with  the  wind  off  the 
Hudson  River,  and  gorgeous  oak  trees  all  about.  When 
the  acorns  dropped  on  the  tin  roof  of  the  veranda  in 
the  dead  of  night  they  made  an  alarming  noise  like 
tiny  ghostly  footsteps. 

One  day  when  I  was  off  on  an  herb-hunting  expedi- 


Amateurs — and  OtHers  287 

tion,  some  highwaymen  tried  to  stop  my  carriage, 
and  that  was  the  beginning  of  troublous  times  at  Cold 
Spring.  It  developed  that  a  band  of  robbers  was 
operating  in  our  neighbourhood,  with  headquarters  in  a 
cave  on  Storm  King  Mountain,  just  opposite  us.  They 
made  a  specialty  of  robbing  trains,  and  were  led  by  a 
small  man  with  such  little  feet  that  his  footprints  were 
easily  enough  traced; — traced,  but  not  easily  caught 
up  with!  He  never  was  caught,  I  believe.  But  he,  or 
his  followers,  skulked  about  our  place;  and  we  were 
alarmed  enough  to  provide  ourselves  with  pistols. 
That  was  when  I  learned  to  shoot,  and  I  used  to  have 
shooting  parties  for  target  practice.  My  father  would 
prowl  about  after  dark,  firing  off  his  pistol  whenever  he 
heard  a  suspicious  sound,  so  that,  for  a  time,  what 
with  acorns  and  pistols,  the  nights  were  somewhat 
disturbed. 

During  the  summers  I  drove  all  over  the  country  and 
had  great  fun  stopping  my  pony — he  was  a  dear  pony, 
too, — and  rambling  about  picking  flowers.  I  never 
passed  a  spring  without  stopping  to  drink  from  it. 
I  've  always  had  a  passion  for  woods  and  brooks;  and 
was  the  enterprising  one  of  the  family  when  it  came  to 
exploring  new  roads.  Of  the  beaten  track  I  can  stand 
only  just  so  much;  then  my  spirit  rises  in  rebellion.  I 
love  a  cowpath. 

I  used  to  be  an  adept,  too,  at  finding  flag-root,  which 
was  "so  good  to  put  in  your  handkerchief  to  take  to 
church"!  (We  carried  our  handkerchiefs  in  our  hands 
in  those  days.)  Or  dill,  or  fresh  fennel, ' '  to  chew  through 
the  long  service ' ' !  Now  the  dill  flavour  is  called  caraway 
seed ;  but  it  is  n't  the  same,  or  does  n't  seem  so.  And 
there  was  fresh,  sweet,  black  birch!  Could  anything 
be  more  delicious  than  the  taste  of  black  birch?  The 


288  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

present  generation,  with  its  tea-rooms  and  soda-water 
fountains,  does  not  know  the  refreshment  of  those 
delicacies  prepared  by  Nature  herself.  I  feel  sure  that 
John  Burroughs  appreciates  black  birch,  being,  as  he  is, 
one  of  the  survivals  of  the  fittest! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
"THE  THREE  GRACES" 

IN  1877, 1  embarked  upon  a  venture  that  was  destined, 
in  spite  of  much  success,  to  be  one  of  the  most 
unpleasant  experiences  of  my  professional  career.  Max 
Strakosch  and  Colonel  Mapleson,  the  younger — Henry 
Mapleson — organised  a  Triple-Star  Tour  all  over  Amer- 
ica, the  three  being  Marie  Roze,  Annie  Louise  Cary,  and 
Clara  Louise  Kellogg.  The  press  called  us  "The  Three 
Graces"  and  wrote  much  fulsome  nonsense  about 
"three  pure  and  irreproachable  women  appearing  to- 
gether upon  the  operatic  stage,  etc."  The  classifica- 
tion was  one  I  did  not  care  for.  Here,  after  many 
intervening  years,  I  enter  and  put  on  record  my 
protest.  At  the  time  it  all  served  as  advertising  to 
boom  the  tour  and,  as  it  was  most  of  it  arranged  for  by 
Mapleson  himself,  I  had  to  let  it  go  by  in  dignified 
silence. 

Nor  was  Henry  Mapleson  any  better  than  he  should 
have  been  either,  in  his  personal  life  or  in  his  business 
relations,  as  his  wives  and  I  have  reason  to  know.  I 
say  "wives"  advisedly,  for  he  had  several.  Marie 
Roze  was  never  really  married  to  him  but,  as  he  called 
her  Mrs.  Mapleson,  she  ought  to  be  counted  among  the 
number.  At  the  time  of  our  "Three-Star  Tour,"  she 
was  playing  the  role  of  Mapleson's  wife  and  finding  it 

somewhat  perilous.    She  was  a  mild  and  gentle  woman, 
19  289 


290  An  American  Prima  Donna 

very  sweet-natured  and  docile  and  singularly  stupid, 
frequently  incurring  her  managerial  "husband's"  rage 
by  doing  things  that  he  thought  were  impolitic,  for  he 
had  always  to  manage  every  effect.  She  seldom  com- 
plained of  his  treatment  but  nobody  could  know  them 
without  being  sorry  for  her.  Previous  to  this  relation 
with  Mapleson,  Marie  Roze  had  married  an  exceed- 
ingly fine  man,  a  young  American  singer  of  distinction, 
who  died  soon  after  the  marriage.  She  had  two  sons, 
one  of  whom,  Raymond  Roze,  passed  himself  off  as  her 
nephew  for  years.  I  believe  he  is  a  musical  director  of 
position  and  success  in  London  at  the  present  day. 
Henry  Mapleson  did  not  inherit  any  of  the  strong 
points  of  his  father,  Col.  J.  M.  Mapleson  of  London, 
who  really  did  know  something  about  giving  opera, 
although  he  had  his  failings  and  was  difficult  to  deal 
with.  Henry  Mapleson  always  disliked  me  and,  over 
and  over  again,  he  put  Marie  in  a  position  of  seeming 
antagonism  to  me;  but  I  never  bore  malice  for  she  was 
innocent  enough.  She  had  some  spirit  tucked  away  in 
her  temperament  somewhere,  only,  when  we  first  knew 
her,  she  was  too  intimidated  to  let  it  show.  When  she 
was  singing  Carmen  she  was  the  gentlest  mannered 
gypsy  that  was  ever  stabbed  by  a  jealous  lover — a 
handsome  Carmen  but  too  sweet  and  good  for  any- 
thing. Carlton  was  the  Escamillo  and  he  said  to  her 
quite  crossly  once  at  rehearsal, 

"You  don't  make  love  to  me  enough!  You  don't  put 
enough  devil  into  it!" 

Marie  flared  up  for  a  second. 

"I  can  be  a  devil  if  I  like,"  she  informed  him.  But, 
in  spite  of  this  assertion,  she  never  put  any  devil  into 
anything  she  did — on  the  stage  at  least. 

Very   few   singers   ever   seem   to   get   really   inside 


&- 


*• 


Colonel  Henry  Mapleson 

From  a  photograph  by  Downey 


"The  Three  Graces" 


291 


Carmen.  Some  of  the  modern  ones  come  closer  to  her; 
but  in  my  day  there  was  an  unwritten  law  against 
realism  in  emotion.  In  most  of  the  old  standard  roles 
it  was  all  right  to  idealise  impulses  and  to  beautify  the 
part  generally,  but  Carmen  is  too  terribly  human  to 
profit  by  such  treatment.  She  cannot  be  glossed  over. 
One  can,  if  one  likes,  play  Traviata  from  an  elegant 
point  of  view,  but  there  is  nothing  elegant  about 
Merimee's  Gypsy.  Neither  is  there  any  sentiment. 
Carmen  is  purely  —  or,  rather,  impurely  —  elemental,  a 
complete  little  animal.  I  used  to  love  the  part,  though. 
When  I  was  studying  the  part,  I  got  hold  of  Prosper 
Merimee's  novel  and  read  it  and  considered  it  until  I 
really  understood  the  girl's  nature  which,  en  passant,  I 
may  say  is  more  than  the  critic  of  The  New  York  Tribune 
had  done.  I  doubt  if  he  had  ever  read  Merimee  at  all, 
for  he  said  that  my  rendering  of  Carmen  was  too 
realistic  !  The  same  column  spoke  favourably  in  later 
years,  of  Mme.  Calve's  performance,  so  it  was  un- 
doubtedly a  case  of  autres  temps,  autres  mceurs  !  Car- 
men was,  of  course,  too  low  for  me.  It  was  written  for 
a  low  mezzo,  and  parts  of  it  I  could  not  sing  without 
forcing  my  lower  register.  The  Habanera  went  very 
well  by  being  transposed  half  a  tone  higher;  but  the 
card-playing  scene  was  another  matter.  The  La  Morte 
encore  lies  very  low  and  I  could  not  raise  it.  Luckily 
the  orchestra  is  quite  light  there  and  I  could  sing 
reflectively  as  if  I  were  saying  to  myself,  as  I  sat  on 
the  bales,  "My  time  is  coming!" 


-5^ 


Ri-pe-te-ra:  l'av-el!.... 


an  -  cor! 


-N-2**- 


an  -cor!.. 


La   Morte     an  -cor! 


292  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

In  the  fortune-telling  quartette  I  arranged  with  one  of 
the  Gypsy  girls — Frasquita,  I  think  it  was, — to  sing 
my  part  and  let  me  sing  hers,  which  was  very  high,  and 
thus  relieve  me. 

A  role  in  which  I  made  my  debut  while  I  was  with 
Marie  Roze  and  Gary  was  Aida.  Mapleson  was  anxious 
that  Roze  should  have  it,  but  Strakosch  gave  it  to  me. 
One  of  Mapleson's  critics  wrote  severely  about  my 
sitting  on  a  low  seat  instead  of  on  the  steps  of  the  dais 
during  the  return  of  Rhadames,  I  remember  in  this 
connection.  But  nothing  could  prevent  Aida  from  being 
a  success  and  it  became  one  of  my  happiest  roles.  A 
year  or  two  later  when  I  sang  it  in  London  my  success 
was  confirmed.  Gary  was  Amneris  in  it  and  ranked 
next  to  the  Amneris  for  whom  Verdi  wrote  it,  although 
she  rather  over-acted  the  part.  I  have  never  seen  an 
Amneris  who  did  not.  There  is  something  about  the 
part  that  goes  to  the  head.  Speaking  of  my  new  roles 
at  that  period,  I  must  not  forget  to  mention  my  mad 
scene  from  Hamlet;  nor  my  one  act  of  Lohengrin  that 
I  added  to  my  repertoire.  Lucia  had  always  been  one  of 
my  successes;  and  I  believe  that  one  of  the  points  that 
made  my  Senta  interesting  was  that  I  interpreted  her 
as  a  girl  obsessed  with  what  was  almost  a  monomania. 
She  was  a  highly  abnormal  creature  and  that  was  the 
way  I  played  her.  It  was  a  satisfaction  to  me  that  a 
few  people  here  and  there  really  appreciated  this  rather 
subtle  interpretation.  In  commendation  of  this  inter- 
pretation there  appeared  an  anonymous  letter  in  The 
Chicago  Inter -Ocean,  a  part  of  which  read: 

In  her  rendering  of  this  strange  character  (Senta)  Miss 
Kellogg  keeps  constantly  true  to  the  ideal  of  the  great 
composer,  Wagner.  In  her  acting,  as  well  as  in  her  singing, 
we  see  nothing  of  the  woman ;  only  the  abnormal  manifesta- 


Clara  Louise  Kellogg  as  Aida 

From  a  photograph  by  Mora 


*THe  THree  Graces"  293 

tions  of  the  subject  of  a  monomania.  The  writer  is  informed 
by  a  physician  whose  observations  of  the  insane,  extending 
over  many  years,  enable  him  to  judge  of  Miss  Kellogg's 
acting  in  this  character,  and  he  does  not  hesitate  to  say 
that  she  delineates  truthfully  the  victim  of  a  mind  diseased. 
Such  a  delineation  can  only  be  the  result  of  a  careful  study 
of  the  insane,  aided  by  a  wonderful  intuitive  faculty.  The 
representation  of  the  mad  Ophelia  in  the  last  act  of  Hamlet, 
given  by  Miss  Kellogg  last  Saturday,  fully  confirms  the 
writer  in  the  belief  that  no  woman  since  Ristori  possesses 
such  power  in  rendering  the  manifestations  of  the  insane." 

The  portion  of  my  tour  with  Roze  and  Gary  under 
the  management  of  Max  Strakosch  that  took  me  to  the 
far  West,  was  particularly  uncomfortable.  Fortunately 
the  financial  results  compensated  in  a  large  measure 
for  the  annoyances.  Not  only  did  I  have  Mapleson's 
influence  and  his  determination  to  push  Marie  Roze  at 
all  costs  to  contend  with,  and  the  trying  actions  and 
personality  of  Annie  Louise  Gary,  but  I  also  was  sub- 
jected to  much  embarrassment  from  a  manager  named 
Bianchi,  with  whom,  early  in  my  career,  I  had  partially 
arranged  to  go  to  California.  Our  agreement  had 
fallen  through  because  he  was  unable  to  raise  the  sum 
promised  me;  so,  when  I  did  go,  with  Roze  and  Gary 
and  Strakosch,  he  was  exceedingly  bitter  against  me. 

Annie  Louise  Gary  was,  strictly  speaking,  a  contralto ; 
yet  she  contrived  to  be  considered  as  a  mezzo  and  even 
had  a  try  at  regular  soprano  roles  like  Mignon.  It  is 
almost  superfluous  to  state  that  she  disliked  me.  So 
far  as  I  was  concerned,  she  would  have  troubled  me 
very  little  indeed  if  she  had  been  willing  to  let  me  alone. 
I  would  not  know  her  socially,  but  professionally  I 
always  treated  her  with  entire  courtesy  and  would  have 
been  satisfied  to  hold  with  her  the  most  amicable 


294  -A.n  American  Prime  Donna 

relations  in  the  world,  as  I  have  with  all  singers  with 
whom  I  have  appeared  in  public.  Annie  Louise  Gary, 
however,  willed  it  otherwise.  The  Tribune  once  printed 
a  long  editorial  in  which  Max  Strakosch  was  described 
as  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  distractedly,  crying: 
"Oh,  what  troubles!  For  God's  sake,  don't  break  up 
my  troupe!"  This  was  rather  exaggerated;  but  I 
daresay  there  was  more  truth  than  fiction  in  it.  Poor 
Max  did  have  his  troubles! 

Max  Strakosch  was  an  Austrian  by  birth  and,  having 
lived  the  greater  part  of  twenty-five  years  in  this  coun- 
try, considered  himself  an  American.  He  began  his 
career  with  Parodi,  somewhere  back  in  the  rosy  dawn 
of  our  operatic  history.  Parodi  was  a  great  dramatic 
singer — the  only  woman  of  her  day — brought  over  as 
the  rival  of  Jenny  Lind.  Later  Max  Strakosch  was 
with  Thalberg,  after  which  he  was  connected  with  the 
importation  of  various  opera  troupes  having  in  their 
lists  such  singers  as  Madame  Gazzaniga,  Madame 
Coulsen,  Albertini,  Stigelli,  Brignoli,  and  Susini.  In  all 
these  early  enterprises  he  was  associated  with  his 
brother  Maurice.  He  would  himself  have  become  a 
musician,  but  Maurice  advised  differently.  So,  as  he 
expressed  it,  he  always  engaged  his  artists  "by  ear"; 
that  is,  he  had  them  sing  to  him  and  in  that  way 
judged  of  their  availability.  Maurice  used  to  say  to 
him,  "If  you  are  merely  a  technical  musician  you  can 
only  tell  what  will  please  musicians.  If  you  have 
general  musical  culture,  and  know  the  public,  you  can 
tell  what  will  please  the  public."  And,  as  Max  some- 
times amplified,  "I  have  discovered  this  to  be  correct 
in  many  cases.  Jarrett,  who  acted  as  the  agent  of 
Nilsson  and  Lucca,  is  not  a  practical  musician.  Neither 
is  Morelli,  who  is  a  great  impresario;  neither  is  Maple- 


4  The  Three  Graces"  295 

son.  But  they  know  what  the  public  want  and  they 
furnish  it."  After  he  separated  from  his  brother  in 
operatic  management,  Max  travelled  with  Gottschalk, 
with  Carlotta  Patti,  and  first  brought  Nilsson  to 
America.  Capoul,  Campanini,  and  Maurel  all  made 
their  appearance  on  the  American  operatic  stage  under 
his  guidance. 

Do  you  find  your  artists  difficult  to  manage?  [he  was 
asked  by  a  San  Francisco  reporter]. 

In  some  respects,  yes,  [was  his  reply].  They  have 
certain  operas  which  they  wish  to  sing  and  they  decline  to 
learn  others.  The  public  get  tired  of  these  and  demand 
novelty.  With  Miss  Kellogg  there  is  never  this  trouble. 
She  knows  forty  operas  and  knows  them  well.  She  has  a 
wonderful  musical  memory.  She  is  a  student,  and  learns 
everything  new  that  is  published.  She  has  worked  her  way 
to  her  present  high  position  step  by  step.  She  is  sure  of  her 
position.  She  has  an  independent  fortune,  but  loves  her 
art  and  her  country.  But  she  is  not  obliged  to  confine 
herself  to  America.  She  has  offers  from  London,  Paris,  and 
St.  Petersburg,  and  will  probably  visit  those  places  next 
season.  She  is  just  now  at  the  zenith  of  her  powers.  She 
has  learned  Paul  and  Virginia,  a  very  charming  opera 
written  for  Capoul,  and  which  will  be  given  here  for  the 
first  time  in  the  United  States.  If  we  give  our  contem- 
plated season  of  opera  here  she  will  sing  Valentine  in  The 
Huguenots  for  the  first  time. 

This  same  reporter  has  described  Max  as  follows: 

He  can  be  seen  almost  at  any  hour  about  the  Palace 
Hotel  when  not  engaged  with  a  myriad  of  musicians — 
opera  singers  long  ago  stranded  on  this  coast,  young 
vocalists  with  voices  to  be  tried,  chorus  singers  seeking 
employment,  players  on  instruments  wanting  to  perform, 
in  his  orchestra,  and  people  who  come  on  all  imaginable 
errands — or  looking  at  the  objects  of  curiosity  about  the 


296  An  American  Prima  Donna 

city.  He  is  always  in  a  state  of  vibration;  has  a  tongue 
forever  in  motion  and  a  body  never  at  rest.  He  is  as 
demonstrative  as  a  Frenchman.  He  talks  with  all  the 
oscillations,  bobs,  shrugs,  and  nervous  twitchings  of  the 
most  mercurial  Parisian.  He  has  a  pronounced  foreign 
accent.  When  speaking,  his  voice  runs  over  the  entire 
gamut,  only  stopping  at  C  sharp  above  the  lines.  In  the 
dining-room  he  attracts  the  attention  of  guests  and  waiters 
by  the  eagerness  of  his  manner.  When  interested  in  the 
subject  of  conversation,  he  throws  his  arms  sideways, 
endangering  the  lives  of  his  neighbours  with  his  knife  and 
fork,  rises  in  his  seat,  makes  extravagant  gestures  .  .  . 
His  greeting  is  always  cordial,  accompanied  by  a  grasp  of 
the  hand  like  a  patent  vice  or  the  gentle  nip  of  a  hay-press. 

Mile.  lima  de  Murska,  "The  Hungarian  Nightin- 
gale," was  with  us  part  of  the  time  on  this  tour.  She 
was  a  well-known  Amina  in  Sonnambula  and  appeared 
in  our  all-star  casts  of  Don  Giovanni.  She  was  said  to 
have  had  five  husbands.  I  know  she  had  a  chalk- 
white  face,  a  belt  of  solid  gold,  and  a  menagerie  of 
snakes  and  lizards  that  she  carried  about  with  her. 
This  is  all  I  remember  with  any  vividness  of  Murska. 

It  all  seems  long,  long  ago;  and,  I  find,  it  is  the 
ridiculously  unimportant  things  that  stand  out  most 
clearly  in  my  memory.  For  instance,  we  gave  extra 
concerts,  of  course,  and  one  of  them  lasted  so  long, 
thanks  to  encores  and  general  enthusiasm,  that  Stra- 
kosch  had  to  send  word  to  hold  the  train  by  which  we 
were  leaving.  But  the  audience  wanted  more,  and  yet 
more,  and  at  last  I  had  to  go  out  on  the  stage  and  say: 

"There  's  a  train  waiting  for  me!  If  I  sing  again, 
I  '11  miss  that  train!" 

Then  the  people  laughingly  consented  to  let  me  go. 

Another  funny  little  episode  happened  in  San  Fran- 


'  THe  THree  Graces  '  297 

cisco,  when  I  did  for  once  break  down  in  the  middle  of 
a  scene.  It  was — let  me  see — I  think  it  must  have  been 
in  our  last  season  of  English  opera,  instead  of  in  "The 
Three  Graces"  tour,  for  it  occurred  in  The  Talisman, 
but  speaking  of  California  suggests  it  to  me.  We 
carried  six  Russian  singers.  They  all  joined  the  Greek 
Church  choir  later.  One  of  them  was  a  little  man 
about  five  feet  high,  with  a  sweet  voice,  but  an  ex- 
tremely nervous  temperament.  There  was  an  unim- 
portant role  in  The  Talisman  of  a  crusading  soldier  who 
had  to  rush  on  and  sing  a  phrase  to  the  effect  that  St. 
George's  boats  and  horses  were  approaching  from  both 
sides;  I  do  not  recall  the  words.  The  only  man  who 
could  sing  the  "bit"  was  our  five-foot  Russian  friend. 
He  had  to  wear  a  large  Saracen  helmet  and  carry  a 
shield  six  feet  high ;  and  his  entrance  was  a  running  one. 
I,  playing  Lady  Edith  Plantagenet,  looked  around  to 
see  the  poor  little  chap  come  staggering  along  under 
the  immense  shield  and  to  hear  a  very  shaky  and 
frightened  voice  gasp:  "Sire,  St.  George's  floats  and 
boats,  and  flounts  and  mounts —  I  tried  to  sing 
"A  traitor!  A  traitor!"  but  got  only  as  far  as  "A 
trai — "  when  I  was  overcome  with  an  impulse  of 
laughter  and  the  curtain  had  to  be  rung  down ! 

I  recall,  too,  a  visit  I  had  from  a  Chinese  woman. 
I  had  bought  something  from  a  Chinese  shop  in  San 
Francisco,  and  the  wife  of  the  merchant,  dressed  most 
ceremoniously  and  accompanied  by  four  servants,  came 
to  see  me  and  expressed  her  desire  to  have  me  call  on 
her.  So  a  cousin  who  was  with  me  and  I  went,  expect- 
ing to  see  a  Chinese  interior;  but  we  found  the  most 
banal  of  American  furnishings  and  surroundings.  After- 
wards we  visited  Chinatown  and  one  of  the  opium  dens, 
where  we  saw  the  whole  process  of  opium  smoking 


298  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

by  the  men  there,  lying  in  bunks  along  the  wall  like 
shelves.  It  was  on  this  trip,  too,  when  going  West, 
that,  as  we  reached  the  Junction  in  Utah  to  branch  off 
to  Salt  Lake  City,  we  found  the  tracks  were  all  filled  up 
with  the  funeral  train — flat  decorated  cars  with  seats 
— left  from  the  funeral  of  Brigham  Young. 

But  the  strongest  recollection  of  all — yes,  even  than 
the  troubles  between  Annie  Louise  Gary  and  myself — 
stands  out,  of  that  Western  tour,  the  knowledge  of  the 
good  friends  I  won,  personally  and  professionally,  a 
collective  testimonial  of  which  remains  with  me  in  the 
form  of  a  large  gold  brooch  shaped  like  a  lyre,  across 
which  is  an  enamelled  bar  of  music  from  Faust  deli- 
cately engraved  in  gold  and  with  diamonds  used  as  the 
notes.  On  the  back  is  inscribed : 

"Farewell  from  friends  who  love  thee. " 
The  same  year  I  sang  at  the  triennial  festival  of 
the  Handel  and  Haydn  Society  of  Boston.  Emma 
Thursby,  a  high  coloratura  soprano,  was  with  us.  So 
were  Charles  Adams  and  M.  W.  Whitney.  Gary  also 
sang.  It  was  a  very  brilliant  musical  event  for  the 
Boston  of  those  days.  It  was  in  Boston,  too,  although 
a  little  later,  that  Von  Bulow  called  on  me  and,  speak- 
ing of  practising  on  the  piano,  showed  me  his  ringers, 
upon  the  tips  of  every  one  of  which  were  very  tough 
corns.  In  further  conversation  he  remarked,  with 
regard  to  Wagner,  "Ah,  he  married  my  widow!" 
When  singing  in  Boston  one  night,  during  "The 
Three  Graces"  tour,  at  a  performance  of  Mignon,  there 
was  noted  by  one  newspaper  man  who  was  present  the 
somewhat  curious  fact  that  in  singing  that  Italian  opera 
only  one  of  the  principals  sang  in  his  or  in  her  native 
tongue.  Gary  was  an  American,  Roze  a  Frenchwoman, 
Tom  Karl  (Carroll)  an  Irishman,  Verdi  (Green)  an 


Faust  Brooch  Presented  to  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 


".The  Three  Graces"  299 

American,  and  myself.    The  only  Italian  was  Frapoli, 
the  new  tenor. 

In  1878,  on  a  Western  trip,  I  remember  my  making 
a  point,  in  some  place  in  Kansas,  of  singing  in  an 
institute  on  Sunday  for  the  pleasure  of  the  inmates. 
We  had  done  this  sort  of  thing  frequently  before, 
notably  in  Utica.  So  we  went  to  the  prison  to  sing  to 
the  prisoners.  I  said  to  the  company,  "I  am  going  to 
sing  to  give  pleasure,  and  not  a  hymn  is  to  be  in  the 
programme!"  When  I  was  told  of  the  desperadoes  in 
the  place  I  was  almost  intimidated.  The  guards  were 
particularly  imposing.  I  played  my  own  accompani- 
ments and  I  sang  negro  melodies.  I  never  had  such  an 
audience,  of  all  my  appreciative  audiences.  Never,  I 
feel  sure,  have  I  given  quite  so  much  pleasure  as  to 
those  lawless  prisoners  out  in  Kansas. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

ACROSS  THE  SEAS   AGAIN 

I  WAS  glad  to  be  going  again  to  England.  My  farewell 
to  my  native  land  was,  however,  more  like  an 
ovation  than  a  farewell.  One  long  table  of  the  ship's 
grand  saloon  was  heaped  with  flowers  sent  me  by  friends 
and  "admirers."  The  list  of  my  fellow  passengers  on 
this  occasion  was  a  distinguished  one,  including  Bishop 
Littlejohn,  Bishop  Scarborough,  Bishop  Clarkson,  and 
other  Episcopal  prelates  who  were  going  over  to  attend 
the  conference  in  London;  the  Rev.  Dr.  John  Hall; 
Maurice  Grau,  Max  Strakosch,  Henry  C.  Jarrett,  John 
McCullough,  Lester  Wallack,  General  Rathbone  of 
Albany,  Colonel  Ramsay  of  the  British  army,  Frederick 
W.  Vanderbilt,  and  Joseph  Andrede,  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  millionaire.  I  was  interviewed  by  a  Sun  reporter, 
on  deck,  and  assured  him  that  I  was  going  abroad  for 
rest  only. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  shall  not  sing  a  note.  How  could 
I,  after  such  a  season — one  hundred  and  fifty  nights 
of  constant  labour.  No;  I  shall  breathe  the  sea  air, 
and  that  of  the  mountains,  and  see  Paris — delightful 
Paris!  With  such  a  lovely  summer  before  me,  it 
would  be  a  little  hard  to  have  to  work." 

It  was  like  old  times  to  be  in  England  once  more. 
Yet  I  found  many  changes.  One  of  them  was  in  the 
state  of  my  old  friend  James  McKenzie  who  had  been 

300 


-Across  tKe  Seas  Again  301 

in  the  East  Indian  trade  and  had  a  delightful  place  in 
Scotland  adjoining  that  of  the  Queen,  through  which 
she  used  to  drive  with  the  incomparable  John  Brown. 
I  had  been  invited  up  there  on  my  first  visit  to  England, 
but  was  not  able  to  accept.  When  I  asked  for  him  this 
time  I  learned  that  he  had  been  knighted  for  loaning 
money  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  A  girl  I  knew  quite 
well  told  me,  this  year,  a  touching  little  story  of  a  half- 
fledged  romance  which  had  taken  place  at  Sir  James's 
place  in  Scotland.  The  Prince  who  was  known  in 
England  as  "Collars  and  Cuffs"  and  who  died  young, 
was  with  the  McKenzies  for  the  hunting  season  and 
there  met  my  friend, — such  a  pretty  American  girl  she 
was!  They  fell  in  love  with  each  other  and,  though  of 
course  nothing  could  come  of  it,  they  played  out  their 
pathetic  little  drama  like  any  ordinary  young  lovers. 

"Come  down  early  to  dinner,"  the  Prince  would 
whisper.  "I  '11  have  a  bit  of  heather  for  you!" 

And  when  they  met  in  London,  later,  he  took  her  to 
Marlborough  House  and  showed  her  the  royal  nurseries 
and  the  shelves  where  his  toys  were  still  kept.  The  girl 
nearly  broke  down  when  she  told  me  about  it.  I  have 
thought  of  the  little  story  more  than  once  since. 

"He  hated  to  have  me  courtesy  to  him,"  she  said. 
"He  used  to  whisper  quite  fiercely:  'don't  you  courtesy 
to  me  when  you  can  avoid  it — I  can't  bear  to  have  you 
doit!'  " 

My  new  role  in  London  that  season  was  Aida.  For, 
of  course,  I  was  singing !  It  went  so  well  that  Mapleson 
(pere)  wanted  to  extend  my  engagement.  But  I  was 
very,  very  tired  and,  for  some  reason — this,  probably,— 
not  in  my  usual  "form,"  to  borrow  an  Anglicism,  so  I 
decided  to  go  to  Paris  and  rest,  meanwhile  waiting  for 
something  to  develop  that  I  liked  well  enough  to  accept. 


3O2  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

Maurice  Strakosch  had  been  my  agent  in  England,  but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  his  methods  were  becoming  some- 
what antiquated.  So  I  gave  him  up  and  decided  that  I 
would  get  along  without  any  agent  at  all.  I  also  gave 
up  Colonel  Mapleson.  Mapleson  owed  me  money— 
although,  for  that  matter,  he  owed  everybody.  Poor 
Titjiens  sang  for  years  for  nothing.  So,  when,  as  soon  as 
I  was  fairly  settled  in  Paris,  the  Colonel  sent  me  earnest 
and  prayerful  summons  to  come  back  to  London  and 
go  on  singing  A'ida,  I  turned  a  deaf  ear  and  sent  back 
word  that  I  was  too  tired. 

My  first  appearance  in  London  this  season  was  at 
a  Royal  Concert  at  Buckingham  Palace  to  which,  as 
before,  I  was  "commanded."  There  were  present 
many  royalties,  any  number  of  foreign  ambassadors, 
dukes,  duchesses,  marquises,  marchionesses,  arch- 
bishops, earls,  countesses,  lords,  and  viscounts.  Her 
Royal  Highness,  the  Princess  of  Wales  wove,  I  remem- 
ber, a  gown  of  creme  satin  brocade  trimmed  with  point 
d'Alencon,  trimmed  with  pansy-coloured  velvet;  and 
her  jewels  were  diamonds,  pearls,  and  sapphires.  Her 
tiara  was  of  diamonds  and  she  was  decorated  with 
many  orders.  Said  an  American  press  notice: 

Miss  Kellogg,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  say,  achieved  a  complete 
triumph  and  received  the  congratulations  of  the  Prince  and 
Princess  of  Wales  and  of  everyone  present.  .  .  .  And  not 
a  whit  behind  this  was  the  great  triumph  she  gained  on  the 
evening  of  June  19th,  in  her  character  of  Aida,  without 
doubt  the  most  impressive  and  ambitious  of  her  impersona- 
tions, and  which  has  won  for  her  in  America  the  highest 
praise  from  musical  people  and  public  on  account  of  the 
intensity  of  feeling  which  she  throws  into  the  dramatic 
action  and  music.  The  London  Times  critic,  who  is  un- 
doubtedly the  best  in  London,  bestows  praise  in  unequivocal 


Across  tKe  Seas  Again  303 

language  for  the  excellence  of  Miss  Kellogg's  interpretation. 
That  Miss  Kellogg  has  been  so  successful  as  a  singer  will  be 
g^d  news  to  her  friends,  and  that  she  has  been  so  successful 
as  an  American  singer  will  be  still  better  news  to  those 
people  who  feel  keenly  for  our  national  reputation  as 
lovers  and  promoters  of  the  fine  arts. 

In  an  interview  in  London  Max  Strakosch  was  asked 
with  regard  to  his  plans  for  another  season: 

"Why  do  you  contemplate  giving  English  opera  instead 
of  Italian?" 

' '  For  two  reasons , "  he  replied .  ' '  The  first  is  that  English 
is  very  popular  now  and  the  great  generality  of  people  in 
England  and  America  prefer  it.  This  is  especially  the  case 
in  England.  The  second  reason  is  that,  although  Kellogg 
is  the  equal  of  an  Italian  operatic  star,  fully  as  fine  as 
Gerster,  immeasurably  superior  to  Hauck,  people  with  set 
ideas  will  always  have  their  favourites,  and  partisanship 
is  possible;  whereas  in  English  opera  Kellogg  stands  alone, 
unapproachable,  the  indisputable  queen." 

"What  is  all  this  talk  I  hear  about  a  lot  of  rich  men 
coming  to  the  front  in  New  York  to  support  Mapleson's 
operatic  ventures  with  their  money?" 

"Why,  it  is  all  talk;  that 's  just  it.  That  sort  of  talk  has 
been  talked  for  years  back,  but  they  never  do  anything. 
Why  did  n't  these  rich  men  that  want  opera  in  New  York 
give  me  any  money?  I  stood  ready  to  bring  out  any 
artists  they  wanted  if  they  would  guarantee  me  against 
loss.  But  they  never  did  anything  of  the  kind,  and  I  have 
brought  out  the  leading  artists  of  our  times  at  my  own 
risks.  The  only  man  who  's  worth  anything  of  all  that  lot 
that  's  talking  so  much  about  opera  now  in  New  York  is 
Mr.  Bennett.  He 's  got  the  Herald,  and  that  has  influence." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Americans  as  an  opera-going 
people?"  he  was  asked. 

"  While  we  have  many  music-lovers  in  America,  it   is 


304  -A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

nevertheless  a.  difficult  matter  to  cater  to  our  public,"  Max 
replied.  "Here  in  England  there  is  such  an  immense  con- 
stituency for  opera;  people  who  have  solid  fortunes,  which 
nothing  disturbs,  and  who  want  opera  and  all  other  beauti- 
ful and  luxurious  things,  and  will  pay  largely  for  them. 
In  America  hard  times  may  set  everybody  to  economising 
and,  of  course,  one  of  the  first  things  cut  off  is  going  to  the 
opera." 

"Was  all  that  gossip  about  disputes  and  jealousies  be- 
tween Kellogg  and  Gary  last  season  a  managerial  dodge 
for  notoriety?" 

"  Dear  me,  no.  I  have  n't  the  slightest  idea  how  all  that 
stuff  and  nonsense  started.  Kellogg  and  Gary  were  always 
good  friends.  If  Gary  was  n't  pleased  with  her  treatment 
last  year,  why  should  she  engage  with  us  again?  Besides, 
what  rivalry  could  there  possibly  be  between  a  soprano  and 
a  contralto?  The  soprano  is  the  prima  donna  incontestably, 
the  star  of  the  troupe." 

In  Paris  my  mother  and  I  took  an  apartment  on  the 
Rue  de  Chaillot,  just  off  the  Champs  Elysees.  One 
of  the  first  things  I  did  in  Paris  was  to  refuse  an  offer 
to  sing  in  Budapesth.  While  in  Paris  I,  of  course,  did 
sing  many  times,  but  it  was  always  unprofessionally. 
I  had  a  wonderful  stay  in  Paris,  and  went  to  everything 
from  horse  shows  to  operas.  Those  were  the  charming 
days  when  Mme.  Adam  had  her  salon.  I  met  there 
some  of  the  most  gifted  and  brilliant  people  of  the  age. 
She  was  the  editor  of  the  Nouvelle  Revue,  and  it  was 
through  her  that  I  met  Coquelin.  He  frequently 
recited  at  her  receptions;  and  it  was  a  great  privilege 
to  hear  his  wonderful  French  and  his  inimitable  intona- 
tion in  an  intime  way. 

The  house  where  I  enjoyed  visiting  more  than  any 
other  except  the  Adams',  was  that  of  Theodore  Robin, 
who  had  married  a  rich  American  widow  and  had  a 


Across  tKe  Seas  -A.§;ain  305 

beautiful  home  on  Pare  Monceau.  His  baritone  voice 
was  a  very  fine  one,  and  he  had  studied  at  first  with 
a  view  to  making  a  career  for  himself;  but  he  was 
naturally  indolent  and,  having  married  money,  his 
indolence  never  decreased.  Valentine  Black  was  an- 
other friend  of  ours  and  we  spent  many  an  evening 
at  his  house  listening  to  Godard  and  Widor  play  their 
songs.  Widor  was  the  organist  at  Saint  Sulpice  and 
had  composed  some  charming  lyric  music.  Godard  was 
a  very  small  man,  intensely  musical.  He  had  the  curi- 
ous gift  of  being  able  to  copy  another  composer's  style 
exactly.  Few  people  know,  for  instance,  that  he  wrote 
all  the  recitative  music  for  Carmen.  It  is  almost  in- 
credible that  another  brain  than  Bizet's  should  have  so 
marvellously  caught  the  spirit  and  the  mood  of  that 
music. 

The  Stanley  Club  gave  me  a  dinner  in  the  following 
March  at  which  my  mother  and  I  were  the  only  ladies 
present.  Mr.  Ryan  was  the  President  of  the  Club  and 
represented  the  New  York  Herald.  The  foreign  cor- 
respondents of  the  Evening  Post  and  the  Boston  Adver- 
tiser were  there,  and  next  to  Ryan  sat  Richard  Watson 
Gilder  who  was  representing  the  Century  Magazine. 
There  were  also  there  several  poets  and  writers,  and 
more  than  one  painter  whose  picture  hung  in  the  Salon 
of  that  year.  No  one  asked  me  to  sing;  but  I  felt  that 
I  wanted  to  and  did  so.  After  the  "Jewel  Song"  and 
the  "Polonaise,"  someone  asked  for  "Way  Down  on 
the  Suwanee  River."  I  sang  it,  and  was  struck  by  the 
incongruous  touch  of  the  little  negro  melody,  the 
brilliant  Stanley  Club,  and  all  Paris  outside. 

No  one  can  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  artistic  Paris 
without  being  interested  in  other  branches  of  art 
besides  one's  own.  That  is  a  charming  trait  of  French 


306  j<\n  .American  Prima  Donna 

people ; — they  are  not  a  bit  prejudiced  when  it  comes  to 
recognising  forms  of  genius  that  are  unfamiliar.  The 
stupidest  Parisian  painter  will  weep  over  Tschaikow- 
sky's  Pathetiqiie  Symphony  or  will  wildly  applaud  one  of 
the  rather  cumbersome  Racine  tragedies  at  the  Theatre 
Francais.  I  knew  Cabanel  quite  well  (not,  I  hasten  to 
add,  that  he  would  be  apt  to  cultivate  an  artistic  taste 
in  anybody)  and  I  met  Jules  Stewart  at  the  Robins', 
whose  father  was  the  greatest  collector  of  Fortuneys 
in  the  world.  I  think  it  was  he  who  took  me  to  the 
Loan  Exhibition  of  the  Barbizon  School  of  Painting 
that  year.  The  pictures  were  hung  beautifully,  I 
remember,  so  that  one  could  see  the  stages  of  their 
development. 

It  was  about  the  same  time  that  I  first  heard  Joseph- 
ine de  Reszke  in  Paris.  In  any  case  it  was  somewhere 
in  the  seventies.  She  was  a  soprano  with  a  beautiful 
voice  but  not  an  attractive  personality.  Her  neck  was 
exceptionally  short  and  set  so  far  down  into  her  shoul- 
ders that  she  just  escaped  deformity.  She  was  very 
much  the  blonde,  northern  type,  and  still  a  young 
woman.  I  have  heard  that  she  did  not  have  to  sing  for 
monetary  reasons.  A  few  years  later  she  married  a 
wealthy  Polish  banker  and  left  the  stage.  At  the  time 
I  first  heard  her  the  de  Reszke  men  were  not  singing.  It 
was  in  Le  Roi  de  Lahore  that  I  heard  her,  with  Lascelle. 
I  never  listened  to  anything  more  magnificently  done 
than  Lascelle's  singing  of  the  big  baritone  aria.  Maurel 
followed  him  as  a  baritone.  He  was  a  great  artist  also, 
with  possibly  more  intelligence  in  his  singing  than 
Lascelle.  Lascelle  relied  entirely  on  his  glorious  voice; 
in  consequence  he  never  realised  all  in  his  career  that 
might  have  been  possible.  In  reality,  if  you  have  one 
great  gift,  you  have  to  develop  as  many  other  gifts  as 


Across  tHe  Seas  .Ag£ain  307 

possible  in  order  to  present  and  to  protect  that  one 
properly !  A  little  later  I  heard  Maurel  in  lago.  (This 
reminds  me  of  Othello  in  Munich,  when  .Vogel,  the  tenor, 
sang  out  of  tune  and  nearly  spoiled  MaureFs  work). 
What  an  actor,  and  what  an  intelligence!  One  felt  in 
Maurel  a  man  who  had  studied  his  roles  from  the 
original  plots.  He  played  a  great  part  in  costuming, 
but,  curiously  enough,  he  could  never  play  parts  of 
what  I  call  elemental  picturesqueness.  His  Amonasro 
in  A'ida  was  good,  but  it  was  a  bit  too  clean  and  tidy. 
He  looked  as  if  he  were  just  out  of  a  Turkish  bath, 
immaculate,  in  spite  of  his  uncivilised  guise.  He  could, 
however,  play  a  small  part  as  if  it  were  the  finest  role 
in  the  piece;  and  he  had  an  inimitable  elegance  and 
art,  even  with  a  certain  primitive  romantic  quality 
lacking.  But  what  days  those  were — of  what  marvel- 
lous singing  companies !  I  hear  no  such  vocalism  now, 
in  spite  of  the  elaborate  and  expensive  opera  that  is 
put  on  each  year. 

In  my  mother's  diary  of  this  period  I  find: 

Louise  presented  to  Verdi  and  we  had  no  idea  she  would 
appear  in  any  newspaper  in  consequence.  .  .  . 

She  went  to  hear  the  damnation  of  Faust  last  Sunday 
and  says  the  orchestra  was  very  fine.  The  singing  is  not  so 
much.  She  went  to  hear  A'ida  last  night  at  the  Grau  Opera 
House  with  Verdi  to  conduct  and  Krauss  as  A  Ida. 
Chorus  and  orchestra  fine  artists.  Well — she  was  dis- 
appointed! Krauss  sings  so  false  and  has  not  as  much 
power  as  Louise.  She  came  home  quite  proud  of  herself. 
Took  her  opera  and  marked  everything.  Says  her  tempo 
was  very  nearly  correct;  but  yet  she  was  disappointed. 
Krauss  changes  her  dress.  Louise  does  not.  .  .  . 

We  went  to  Miss  Van  Zandt's  debut.  She  made  a  verit- 
able success.  Has  a  very  light  tone.  The  Theatre  Comique 


308  .A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

is  small.  She  is  extremely  slender  and,  if  not  worked  too 
hard,  will  develop  into  a  fine  artist.  Our  box  joined  Patti's. 
I  sat  next  to  her  and  we  lost  no  time  in  chatting  over  every- 
thing that  was  interesting  to  us  both.  She  told  me  her  whole 
story.  I  was  very  much  interested ;  and  had  a  most  agree- 
able evening.  Was  glad  I  went. 

In  a  letter  written  by  my  mother  to  my  father  I  find 
another  mention  of  my  meeting  Verdi: 

"Louise  was  invited  to  breakfast  with  Verdi,  the 
composer  of  A'ida.  She  said  he  was  the  most  natural, 
unaffected,  and  the  most  amiable  man  (musical)  she 
ever  met." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

TEACHING  AND  THE  HALF-TALENTED 

I  HAVE  gone  abroad  nearly  every  summer  and  it  was 
on  one  of  these  trips,  in  1877,  that  I  first  met 
Lilian  Nordica.  It  was  at  a  garden  party  given  by  the 
Menier  Chocolat  people  at  their  usine  just  outside 
Paris,  after  she  had  returned  from  making  a  tour  of 
Europe  with  Patrick  Gilmore's  band.  A  few  years 
later  she  and  I  sang  together  in  Russia;  and  we  have 
always  been  good  friends.  At  the  time  of  the  Gilmore 
tour  she  was  quite  a  girl,  but  she  dressed  her  hair  in  a 
fashion  that  made  her  look  much  older  than  she  really 
was  and  that  threw  into  prominence  her  admirably 
determined  chin.  She  always  attributed  her  success 
in  life  to  that  chin.  Before  becoming  an  opera  singer 
she  had  done  about  everything  else.  She  had  been  a, 
book-keeper,  had  worked  at  the  sewing  machine,  and 
sung  in  obscure  choirs.  The  chin  enabled  her  to  sur- 
mount such  drudgery.  A  young  person  with  a  chin  so 
expressive  of  determination  and  perseverence  could  not 
be  downed.  She  told  me  at  that  early  period  that  she 
always  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  some  goal  so  high  and 
difficult  that  it  seemed  impossible,  and  worked  toward 
it  steadily,  unceasingly,  putting  aside  everything  that 
stood  in  the  path  which  led  to  it.  In  later  years  she 
spoke  again  of  this,  evidently  having  kept  the  idea 
throughout  her  career.  "When  I  sang  Elsa,"  she  said, 

309 


310  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

"I  thought  of  Brunhilde,— then  Isolde,—  "  My  ad- 
miration for  Mme.  Nordica  is  deep  and  abounding. 
Her  breathing  and  tone  production  are  about  as  nearly 
perfect  as  anyone's  can  be,  and,  if  I  wanted  any  young 
student  to  learn  by  imitation,  I  could  say  to  her,  "Go 
and  hear  Nordica  and  do  as  nearly  like  her  as  you 
can!"  There  are  not  many  singers,  nor  have  there 
ever  been  many,  of  whom  one  could  say  that.  And  one 
of  the  finest  things  about  this  splendid  vocalism  is 
that  she  has  had  nearly  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  had 
God  Almighty  in  the  first  place.  When  I  first  knew  her 
she  had  no  dramatic  quality  above  G  sharp.  She  could 
reach  the  upper  notes,  but  tentatively  and  without 
power.  She  had,  in  fact,  a  beautiful  mezzo  voice;  but 
she  could  not  hope  for  leading  roles  in  grand  opera 
until  she  had  perfect  control  of  the  upper  notes  needed 
to  complete  her  vocal  equipment.  She  went  about  it, 
moreover,  "with  so  much  judition,"  as  au  old  man  I 
know  in  the  country  says.  But  it  was  not  until  after 
the  Russian  engagement  that  she  went  to  Sbriglia  in 
Paris  and  worked  with  him  until  she  could  sing  a  high 
C  that  thrilled  the  soul.  That  C  of  hers  in  the  In- 
flammatus  in  Rossini's  Stabat  Mater  was  something 
superb.  Not  many  singers  can  do  it  as  successfully  as 
Nordica,  although  they  can  all  accomplish  a  certain 
amount  in  "manufactured"  notes.  Fursch-Nadi,  also 
a  mezzo,  had  to  acquire  upper  notes  as  a  business 
proposition  in  order  to  enlarge  her  repertoire.  She 
secured  the  notes  and  the  requisite  roles;  yet  her  voice 
lost  greatly  in  quality.  Nordica's  never  did.  She 
gained  all  and  lost  nothing.  Her  voice,  while  increas- 
ing in  register,  never  suffered  the  least  detriment  in 
tone  nor  timbre. 

It  was  Nordica  who  first  told  me  of  Sbriglia,  giving 


Teaching  and  tHe  Half-Talented       311 

him  honest  credit  for  the  help  he  had  been  to  her.  Like 
all  truly  big  natures  she  has  always  been  ready  to 
acknowledge  assistance  wherever  she  has  received  it. 
Some  people — and  among  them  artists  to  whom  Sbrig- 
lia's  teaching  has  been  of  incalculable  value — maintain 
a  discreet  silence  on  the  subject  of  their  study  with 
him,  preferring,  no  doubt,  to  have  the  public  think 
that  they  have  arrived  at  vocal  perfection  by  their  own 
incomparable  genius  alone.  All  of  my  training  had 
been  in  my  native  country  and  I  had  always  been  very 
proud  of  the  fact  that  critics  and  experts  on  two  conti- 
nents cited  me  as  a  shining  example  of  what  American 
musical  education  could  do.  All  the  same,  when  I  was 
in  Paris  during  an  off  season,  I  took  advantage  of  being 
near  the  great  teacher,  Sbriglia,  to  consult  him.  I 
really  did  not  want  him  actually  to  do  anything  to  my 
voice  as  much  as  I  wanted  him  to  tell  me  there  was 
nothing  that  needed  doing.  At  the  time  I  went  to  him 
I  had  been  singing  for  twenty  years.  Sbriglia  tried  my 
voice  carefully  and  said: 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  have  saved  your  voice  by  singing 
far  forward. " 

"That's  because  I've  been  worked  hard,"  I  told 
him,  "and  have  had  to  place  it  so  in  self-defence. 
Many  a  night  I  Ve  been  so  tired  it  was  like  pumping 
to  sing !  Then  I  would  sing  'way,  'way  in  front  and,  by 
so  doing,  was  able  to  get  through." 

"Ah,  that's  it!"  said  he.  "You've  sung  against 
your  teeth — the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  voice.  You  get  a  white,  flat  sound  that  way. " 

"Then  I  don't  sing  wrong?"  I  asked,  for  I  knew  that 
the  first  thing  great  vocal  masters  usually  have  to  do  is 
to  tell  one  how  not  to  sing. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Sbriglia,  "you  breathe  by  the 


312  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

grace  of  God!  Breathing  is  all  of  singing  and  I  can 
teach  you  nothing  of  either." 

Sbriglia's  method  was  the  old  Italian  method  known 
to  teachers  as  diaphragmatic,  of  all  forms  of  vocal 
training  the  one  most  productive  of  endurance  and 
stability  in  a  voice.  I  went  several  times  to  sing  for 
him  and,  on  one  occasion,  met  Plangon  who  had  been 
singing  in  Marseilles  and,  from  a  defective  method,  had 
begun  to  sing  out  of  tune  so  badly  that  he  resolved  to 
come  to  Paris  to  see  if  he  could  find  someone  who  might 
help  him  to  overcome  it.  He  was  quite  frank  in  saying 
that  Sbriglia  had  "made  him."  I  used  to  hear  him 
practising  in  the  Maestro's  apartment  and  would 
listen  from  an  adjoining  room  so  that,  when  I  met 
him,  I  was  able  to  congratulate  him  on  his  improve- 
ment in  tone  production  from  day  to  day.  Phrasing 
and  expression  are  what  make  so  many  great  French 
artists — that,  and  an  inborn  sense  of  the  general 
effect.  French  actors  and  singers  never  forget  to 
keep  themselves  picturesque  and  harmonious.  They 
may  get  off  the  key  musically  but  never  artistically. 
Germans  have  not  a  particle  of  this  sense.  They 
are  individualists,  egoists,  and  are  forever  thinking  of 
themselves  and  not  of  the  whole.  When  I  heard 
Slezak,  I  said  to  myself:  "If  only  somebody  would 
photograph  that  man  and  show  him  for  once  what  he 
looks  like!" 

The  worst  thing  Sbriglia  had  to  contend  with  was  the 
obtuseness  of  people.  They  did  not  know  when  they 
were  doing  well  or  ill,  and  would  not  believe  him  when 
he  told  them.  I  remember  being  there  one  day  while  a 
young  Canadian  girl  was  making  tones  for  the  master. 
She  had  a  good  voice  and  could  have  made  a  really  fine 
effect  if  she  could  only  have  heard  herself  with  her 


TeacHing  and  tKe  Half-Talented      313 

brain.  After  he  had  been  working  with  her  for  a  time, 
she  sang  a  delightful  note  properly  placed. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Sbriglia. 

"That  was  lovely,"  I  put  in. 

"  That?  I  would  n't  sing  like  that  for  anything!  It 
sounded  like  an  old  woman's  voice!"  cried  the  girl, 
quite  amazed. 

Sbriglia  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  frenzy  and  ordered 
her  out  of  the  house.  So  that  was  an  end  of  her  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned. 

Sbriglia  really  loved  to  teach.  It  was  a  genuine 
joy  to  him  to  put  the  finishing  touches  on  a  voice ;  to  do 
those  things  for  it  that,  apparently,  the  Creator  had  not 
had  time  to  do.  I  know  one  singer  who,  when  compli- 
mented upon  his  vast  improvement,  replied  without 
the  slightest  intention  of  impiety: 

"Yes,  I  am  singing  well  now,  thanks  to  Sbriglia,— 
and,  of  course,  le  bon  Dieu!11  he  added  as  an  after- 
thought. 

Everyone  knows  what  Sbriglia  did  for  Jean  de  Reszke, 
turning  him  from  an  unsuccessful  baritone  into  the 
foremost  tenor  of  the  world.  Sbriglia  first  met  the 
Polish  singer  at  some  Paris  party,  where  de  Reszke 
told  him  that  he  was  discouraged,  that  his  career  as  a 
baritone  had  not  been  a  fortunate  one,  and  that  he  had 
about  made  up  his  mind  to  give  it  all  up  and  leave  the 
stage.  He  was  a  rich  man  and  did  not  sing  for  a  living 
like  most  professionals.  Sbriglia  had  heard  him  sing. 
Said  he: 

"M.  de  Reszke,  you  are  not  a  baritone." 

"I  am  coming  to  that  conclusion  myself,"  said 
Monsieur  ruefully. 

"No,  you  are  not  a  baritone,"  repeated  Sbriglia. 
"You  are  a  tenor." 


314  -A.n  -American  Prima  Donna 

Jean  de  Reszke  laughed.  A  tenor?  He?  But  it  was 
absurd ! 

Nevertheless  Sbriglia  was  calmly  assured;  and  he 
was  the  greatest  master  of  singing  in  France,  if  not  in 
the  world.  After  a  little  conversation,  he  convinced  M. 
de  Reszke  sufficiently,  at  least,  to  give  the  new  theory  a 
chance. 

"You  need  not  pay  me  anything,"  said  the  great 
teacher  to  the  young  man.  "Not  one  franc  will  I  take 
from  you  until  I  have  satisfied  you  that  my  judgment 
is  correct.  Study  with  me  for  six  months  only  and  then 
I  will  leave  it  to  you — and  the  world!" 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  course  of  study  which 
launched  Jean  de  Reszke  upon  his  extraordinarily 
prosperous  and  brilliant  career. 

Speaking  of  Sbriglia  leads  my  thoughts  from  the 
study  of  singing  in  general  to  the  struggle  of  young 
singers,  first,  for  education,  and,  second,  for  recognition. 
I  would  like  to  impress  upon  those  who  think  of  trying 
to  make  a  career  or  who  would  like  to  make  one  the 
benefit  to  be  derived  from  reading  the  twenty-third  and 
twenty-fourth  chapters  of  George  Eliot's  Daniel  De- 
ronda,  in  which  she  makes  clear  how  much  early 
environment  counts.  There  must  have  been  some 
musical  atmosphere,  even  if  not  of  an  advanced  or 
educated  kind.  Music  must  be  absorbed  with  the  air 
one  breathes  and  the  food  one  eats,  so  as  to  form  part 
of  the  blood  and  tissue. 

It  is  sad  to  see  the  number  of  girls  with  the  idea 
that  they  are  possessed  of  great  gifts  just  ready  to  be 
developed  by  a  short  period  of  study,  after  which  they 
will  blossom  out  into  successful  singers.  Injudicious 
friends — absolutely  without  judgment  or  musical  dis- 
crimination— are  responsible  for  the  cruel  disillusions 


TeacHing  and  tKe   Half-Talented       315 

that  so  frequently  follow.  I  would  like  to  cry  out  to 
them  to  reject  the  thought ;  or  only  to  entertain  it  when 
encouraged  by  those  capable  by  experience  or  training 
of  truly  judging  their  gifts.  Many  and  many  a  girl 
comes  out  of  a  household  where  the  highest  musical 
knowledge  has  been  the  hand-organ  in  the  street,  and 
believes  that  she  is  going  to  take  the  world  by  storm. 
She  is  prepared  to  save  and  scrimp  and  struggle  to  go 
upon  the  stage  when  she  really  should  be  stopping  at 
home,  ironing  the  clothes  and  washing  the  dishes 
allotted  her  by  a  discriminating  and  judicious  Provi- 
dence. Said  Klesner  to  Gwendolen  who  wants  to  go  on 
the  stage  in  Daniel  Deronda: 

You  have  exercised  your  talents — you  recite — you  sing — 
from  the  drawing-room  Standpunkt.  My  dear  Frdulein, 
you  must  unlearn  all  that.  You  have  not  yet  conceived 
what  excellence  is.  You  must  unlearn  your  mistaken 
admirations.  You  must  know  what  you  have  to  strive  for, 
and  then  you  must  subdue  your  mind  and  body  to  unbroken 
discipline.  Your  mind,  I  say.  For  you  must  not  be  think- 
ing of  celebrity.  Put  that  candle  out  of  your  eyes  and  look 
only  at  excellence.  You  would,  of  course,  earn  nothing. 
You  could  get  no  engagement  for  a  long  while.  You  would 
need  money  for  yourself  and  your  family.  .  .  . 

A  mountebank's  child  who  helps  her  father  to  earn 
shillings  when  she  is  six  years  old — a  child  that  inherits 
a  singing  throat  from  a  long  line  of  choristers  and  learns 
to  sing  as  it  learns  to  talk — has  a  likelier  beginning.  Any 
great  achievement  in  acting  or  in  music  grows  with  the 
growth.  Whenever  an  artist  has  been  able  to  say,  "I 
came,  I  saw,  I  conquered, "  it  has  been  at  the  end  of  patient 
practice.  Genius  at  first  is  little  more  than  a  great  capacity 
for  receiving  discipline.  Singing  and  acting,  like  the  fine 
dexterity  of  the  juggler  with  his  cups  and  balls,  require  a 
shaping  of  the  organs  toward  a  finer  and  finer  certainty  of 


316  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

effect.  Your  muscles — your  whole  frame — must  go  like  a 
watch,  true,  true,  true,  to  a  hair.  That  is  the  work  of 
springtime,  before  habits  have  been  determined. 

This  demonstrates  what  I  cannot  emphasise  too 
heartily — the  impossibility  of  taking  people  out  of  their 
normal  environment  and  making  anything  worth  while 
of  them.  There  is  a  place  in  the  world  for  everybody 
and,  if  everybody  would  stay  in  that  place,  there  would 
be  less  confusion  and  fewer  melancholy  misfits.  Sing- 
ing is  not  merely  vocal.  It  is  spiritual.  One  must  be  in 
music  in  some  way;  must  hear  it  often,  or,  even,  hear  it 
talked  about.  Merely  hearing  it  talked  about  gives 
one  a  chance  to  absorb  some  musical  ideas  while  one's 
mental  attitude  is  being  moulded.  Studying  in  classes 
supplies  the  musical  atmosphere  to  a  certain  extent; 
and  so  does  hearing  other  people  sing,  or  reading 
biographies  of  musicians.  All  these  are  better  than 
nothing — much  better — and  yet  they  can  never  take 
the  place  of  really  musical  surroundings  in  childhood. 
Being  brought  up  in  a  household  where  famous  com- 
posers are  known,  loved,  and  discussed,  where  the  best 
music  is  played  on  the  piano  and  where  certain  critical 
standards  are  a  part  of  the  intellectual  life  of  the 
inmates  is  a  large  musical  education  in  itself.  The 
young  student  will  absorb  thus  more  real  musical 
feeling,  and  judgment,  and  knowledge,  than  in  spending 
years  at  a  conservatory. 

I  have  often  and  often  received  letters  asking  for 
advice  and  begging  me  to  hear  the  voices  of  girls  who 
have  been  told  they  have  talent.  It  is  a  heart-breaking 
business.  About  one  in  sixty  has  had  something 
resembling  a  voice  and  then,  ten  chances  to  one,  she 
has  not  been  in  a  position  to  cultivate  herself.  It  is 


TeacHing  and  tHe  Half-Talented       317 

difficult  to  tell  a  girl  that  a  woman  must  have  many 
things  besides  a  voice  to  make  a  success  on  the  stage. 
It  seems  so — well! — so  conceited — to  say  to  her: 

"  My  poor  child,  you  must  have  presence  and  person- 
ality; good  teeth  and  a  knowledge  of  how  to  dress; 
grace  of  manner,  dramatic  feeling,  high  intelligence, 
and  an  aptitude  for  foreign  languages  besides  a  great 
many  other  essentials  that  are  too  numerous  to  men- 
tion but  that  you  will  discover  fast  enough  if  you  try 
to  go  ahead  without  them!" 

An  impulsive  and  warm-hearted  friend  was  visiting 
me  once  when  I  received  a  letter  from  a  young  woman 
whom  I  will  call  "E.  H.,"  asking  permission  to  come 
and  sing  for  me.  I  read  the  note  in  despair  and  threw 
it  over  to  my  friend. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  she  asked, 
after  she  had  glanced  through  it. 

"  Nothing.    The  girl  has  no  talent. " 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  protested  my  friend. 

"By  her  letter.  It  is  a  crassly  ignorant  letter.  I 
feel  perfectly  sure  that  she  can't  sing." 

"You  are  very  unkind!"  my  friend  reproached  me. 
"You  ought  at  least  to  hear  her.  You  may  be  dis- 
couraging a  genuine  genius ' 

"  Now  see  here, "  I  interrupted,  " '  E.  H. '  is  evidently 
ignorant  and  uneducated.  She  further  admits  that  she 
is  poor.  These  facts  taken  together  make  a  terrible 
handicap.  She  'd  have  to  be  a  miracle  to  make  good  in 
spite  of  them." 

"  I  will  pay  her  expenses  to  come  here  and  see  you, " 
declared  my  dear  friend,  obstinate  in  well-doing,  like 
many  another  mistaken  philanthropist. 

I  told  her  that  she  might  take  that  responsibility 
if  she  liked,  but  that  I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 


318  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

raising  a  girl's  false  hopes  in  any  such  way.  "It 's  a 
little  hard  on  her,"  I  said,  "to  have  to  borrow  money 
to  take  a  journey  simply  to  be  told  that  she  can't  sing. 
However,  have  it  your  own  way  and  bring  her. " 

She  came.  I  saw  her  approaching  up  the  driveway 
and  simply  pointed  her  out  to  my  misguided  friend. 
Anyone  would  have  known  the  minute  he  saw  "E.  H. " 
that  she  could  not  sing.  She  slouched  and  dragged  her 
feet  and  was  hopelessly  ordinary,  every  inch  of  her.  It 
was  not  merely  a  matter  of  plainness,  but  something  far 
worse.  She  was  quite  hopeless.  It  turned  out,  poor 
soul,  that  she  was  a  chambermaid  in  a  hotel.  People 
had  heard  her  singing  at  her  work  and  had  told  her 
that  she  ought  to  have  her  voice  cultivated.  It  was, 
as  usual,  a  case  of  injudicious  friends,  and,  by  the 
way,  the  very  fact  of  being  carried  away  by  such  praise 
is  in  itself  a  mark  of  a  certain  lack  of  intelligence.  This 
girl  had  no  temperament,  no  ear,  no  equipment,  no 
taste,  no  advantages  in  the  way  of  having  heard  music. 
I  had  to  say  to  her: 

"You  have  a  pretty  voice  but  nothing  else,  and  not  a 
sign  of  a  career.  Dismiss  it  all,  for  you  must  have 
something  more  than  a  few  sweet  notes. " 

She  cried,  and  I  did,  too.  I  hate  to  be  obliged  to  tell 
girls  such  disagreeable  truths. 

Another  girl  came  to  me  with  her  mother.  She  was 
full  of  herself  and  her  mother  equally  wrapped  up  in 
her.  She  had  taken  part  in  small  village  affairs  in  the 
little  Connecticut  town  where  she  lived.  Her  voice  was 
not  bad,  but  she  produced  her  notes  in  a  wrong  manner. 
Her  teacher  had  encouraged  her  and  promised  her 
success.  But  teachers  do  that,  many  of  them!  I  do 
not  know  that  they  can  altogether  be  blamed. 

"You  don't  breathe  right, "  I  said  to  this  Connecticut 


TeacHing'  and  tKe  Half-Talented       319 

girl.  "You  don't  produce  your  tone  right.  You've 
no  experience  and,  of  course,  you  believe  your  teacher. 
But  you  forget  one  thing.  Your  teacher  has  to  live 
and  you  pay  him  for  stimulating  you,  even  if  he  does  so 
without  justification." 

What  I  did  not  go  on  to  say  to  her,  although  I  longed 
to,  was  that  she  was  not  the  build  of  which  prime  donne 
are  made.  A  prima  donna  has  to  be  compactly,  sturdily 
made,  with  a  strong  backbone  to  support  her  hard  work 
and  a  lifted  chest  to  let  the  tones  out  freely.  A  niece  of 
Bret  Harte's,  who  appeared  for  a  time  in  grand  opera, 
drooped  her  chest  as  she  exhausted  her  breath  and, 
when  I  saw  her  do  it,  I  said: 

"She  sings  well;  but  she  won't  sing  long!" 

She  did  n't. 

My  Connecticut  girl  was  big  and  sloppy,  a  long- 
drawn-out  person,  such  as  is  never,  never  gifted  with  a 
big  voice. 

There  is  something  else  which  is  very  necessary  for 
every  girl  to  consider  in  going  on  the  operatic  stage. 
Has  she  the  means  for  experimenting,  or  does  she  have 
to  earn  her  living  in  some  way  meanwhile?  If  the 
former  is  the  case,  it  will  do  no  harm  for  her  to  play 
about  with  her  voice,  burn  her  fingers  if  need  be,  and 
come  home  to  her  mother  and  father  not  much  the 
worse  for  the  experience.  I  sympathise  somewhat  with 
the  teachers  in  not  speaking  altogether  freely  in  cases 
like  these.  There  is  no  reason  why  anyone  should  take 
from  a  girl  even  one  remote  chance  if  she  can  afford 
to  take  it.  But  poor  girls  should  be  told  the  truth.  So 
I  said  to  my  young  Connecticut  friend : 

"My  dear,  you  are  trying  to  support  yourself  and 
your  mother,  aren't  you?  Very  well.  Now,  suppose 
you  go  on  and  find  that  you  can't — what  will  you  do 


32O  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

then?  What  are  you  fitted  for?  What  can  you  turn 
your  hand  to?  What  have  you  acquired?  Look  how 
few  singers  ever  arrive  and,  if  you  are  not  one  of  the 
few,  will  you  not  merely  have  entirely  unfitted  yourself 
for  the  life  struggle  along  other  lines?" 

Herewith  I  say  the  same  to  four-fifths  of  all  the  girl 
singers  who,  in  villages,  in  shops,  in  schools,  every- 
where, are  all  yearning  to  be  great.  They  came  to  me 
in  shoals  in  Paris  and  Milan,  begging  for  just  enough 
money  to  get  home  with.  I  have  shipped  many  a 
failure  back  to  America,  and  my  soul  has  been  sick 
for  their  disappointment  and  disillusionment.  But 
they  will  not  be  guided  by  advice  or  warning.  They 
have  got  to  learn  actually  and  bitterly.  Neither  are 
they  ever  grateful  for  discouragement  nor  yet  for 
encouragement.  If  you  give  them  the  former,  they 
think  you  are  a  selfish  pessimist ;  and  if  you  give  them 
the  latter,  they  accept  it  as  no  more  than  their  due.  As 
I  have  previously  mentioned,  I  have  known  only  one 
grateful  girl  and  she  was  of  ordinary  ability.  Emma 
Abbott,  for  whom  I  certainly  did  a  great  deal,  was  only 
grateful  because  she  knew  it  was  expected  of  her  by 
the  world  at  large.  I  believe  she  really  thought  that  all 
I  did  was  to  hasten  her  success  a  little  and  that  she 
really  had  not  needed  my  assistance.  Possibly,  she  had 
not.  But  this  other  girl,  to  whom  I  gave  a  little, 
unimportant  advice,  wrote  me  afterwards  a  most 
appreciative  letter,  saying  that  my  advice  had  been 
invaluable  to  her.  It  was  the  only  word  of  genuine 
gratitude  I  ever  received  from  a  young  singer;  and  I 
kept  her  letter  as  a  curiosity. 

I  believe  there  are,  or  were,  more  would-be  prime 
donne  in  Chicago  than  anywhere  else  on  earth.  I  shall 
never  forget  appointing  a  Thursday  afternoon  in  the 


TeacHing;  and  tHe  Half-Talented       321 

Windy  City  to  hear  twelve  aspirants  to  operatic  fame — 
pretty,  fresh,  self-conscious,  young  girls  for  the  most 
part.  There  was  one  of  the  number  who  was  particu- 
larly pretty  and  particularly  aggressive.  She  criticised 
the  others  lavishly,  but  hung  back  from  singing  herself. 
She  talked  a  great  deal  about  her  voice,  saying  that  she 
had  sung  for  Theodore  Thomas  and  that  he  had  told 
her  there  was  no  hall  big  enough  for  it!  Such  colossal 
conceit  prejudiced  me  in  advance  and  I  must  confess  I 
felt  a  little  curiosity  to  hear  this  "phenomenal  organ. " 
It  proved  to  be  perfectly  useless.  She  had  neither 
power  nor  quality  nor  comprehension.  She  could, 
however,  make  a  big  noise,  as  I  told  her.  On  Sunday 
my  friends  began  coming  in  to  see  me,  full  of  an  article 
that  had  appeared  in  one  of  the  papers  that  morning. 
Everyone  began  with : 

"Good  morning,  Louise.  My  dear!  Have  you 
seen, " — etc. 

The  article,  that  had  quite  openly  been  given  the 
paper  by  the  young  lady  whose  voice  had  been  so  much 
admired  by  Theodore  Thomas,  described  my  unkind- 
ness  to  young  singers,  my  jealous  objection  to  praising 
aspirants,  my  discouragement  of  good  voices! 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  always  been  the  friend  of 
young  girls,  especially  of  young  singers.  So  far  from 
wishing  to  hurt  or  discourage  them,  I  have  often  gone 
out  of  my  way  to  help  them  along.  And  I  believe  that 
every  time  I  have  been  obliged  to  tell  a  young  and 
eager  girl  that  there  was  no  professional  triumph  ahead 
of  her,  it  has  cut  me  almost,  if  not  quite,  as  deeply  as  it 
has  cut  her.  For  I  always  feel  that  I  am  maiming,  even 
killing  some  beautiful  thing  in  discouraging  her, — even 
when  I  know  it  to  be  necessary  and  beneficial. 

Another  thing  that  I  wish  young  would-be  artists 


322  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

would  remember  is  that,  if  it  is  worth  while  to  sing  the 
music  of  a  song,  it  is  equally  worth  while  to  sing  the 
words,  and  that  you  cannot  sing  the  words  really, 
unless  you  are  singing  their  meaning.  Do  I  make 
myself  understood,  I  wonder?  Once  a  girl  with  a 
sweetly  pretty  voice  sang  to  me  Nevin's  Mighty  Lak 
a  Rose,  the  little  negro  song  which  Madame  Nordica 
gave  so  charmingly.  When  the  girl  had  finished,  I  said : 

"My  dear,  have  you  read  those  words?" 

She  looked  at  me  blankly.  I  know  she  thought  I  was 
crazy. 

"Because,"  I  proceeded,  "if  you  read  the  poetry 
over  before  you  sing  that  song  again,  you  '11  find  that  it 
will  help  you. " 

She  had,  I  presume,  "read"  the  words  or  she  could 
not  have  actually  pronounced  them;  but  she  had  not 
made  the  slightest  attempt  to  read  the  spirit  of  the  little 
song.  No  picture  had  come  to  her  of  a  rosy  baby 
dropping  asleep  and  of  a  loving  mammy  crooning  over 
him.  She  had  not  read  the  feeling  of  the  song,  even  if 
she  had  memorised  the  syllables.  Girls  hate  to  work. 
They,  even  more  than  boys,  want  a  short  cut  to  effi- 
ciency and  success.  Labour  and  effort  are  cruel  words 
to  them.  They  want  the  glamour  and  the  fun  all  at 
once.  What  would  they  say  to  the  noble  and  inspiring 
example  of  old  E.  S.  Jaffray,  a  merchant  of  sixty,  whom 
I  once  knew,  who,  at  that  age,  decided  to  learn  Italian 
in  order  to  read  Dante  in  the  original? 

The  best  way — as  I  have  said  before  and  as  I  insist 
on  saying — for  anyone  to  learn  to  sing  is  by  imitation 
and  assimilation.  My  friend  Franceschetti,  a  Roman 
gentleman,  poor  but  of  noble  family,  has  classes  that  I 
always  attend  when  I  am  in  the  Eternal  City,  and 
wherein  the  instruction  is  most  advantageously  given. 


TeacHing  and  tHe  Half-Talented       323 

He  criticises  each  student  in  the  presence  of  the  others 
and,  if  the  others  are  listening  at  all  intelligently,  they 
must  profit.  But  you  must  listen,  and  then  listen,  and 
then  keep  on  listening,  and  finally  begin  to  listen  all 
over  again.  You  must  keep  your  ear  ready,  and  your 
mind  as  well. 

Just  as  Faure,  when  he  heard  the  bad  baritone,  said 
to  himself,  ' '  that 's  my  note !  Now  how  does  he  do  it  ?  " 
so  you  must  hold  yourself  ready  to  learn  from  the 
most  humble  as  well  as  from  the  most  unlikely  sources. 
Never  forget  that  Faure  learned  from  the  really  poor 
singer  what  no  good  one  had  been  able  to  teach  him. 
Remember,  too,  that  Patti  learned  one  of  her  own  flexi- 
ble effects  from  listening  to  Faure  himself:  and  that 
these  great  artists  were  not  too  proud  to  acknowledge 
it.  I  never  went  to  hear  Patti,  myself,  without  study- 
ing the  fine,  forward  placing  of  her  voice  and  coming 
home  immediately  and  trying  to  imitate  it. 

Yet,  after  all  one's  efforts  to  help,  one  can  only  let 
the  young  singers  find  out  for  themselves.  If  we  could 
profit  by  each  other's  experience,  there  would  be  no 
need  for  the  doctrine  of  reincarnation.  But  I  wish — oh, 
how  I  wish — that  I  could  save  some  foolish  girls  from 
embarking  on  the  ocean  of  art  as  half  of  them  do  with 
neither  chart  or  compass,  nor  even  a  seaworthy  boat. 

A  better  metaphor  comes  to  me  in  my  recollection  of 
a  famous  lighthouse  that  I  once  visited.  The  rocks 
about  were  strewn  with  dead  birds — pitiful,  little,  eager 
creatures  that  had  broken  their  wings  and  beaten  out 
their  lives  all  night  against  the  great  revolving  light. 
So  the  lighthouse  of  success  lures  the  young,  ambitious 
singers.  And  so  they  break  their  wings  against  it. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  WANDERLUST  AND  WHERE  IT  LED  ME 

THAT  season  of  1879  in  Paris  was  certainly  a  won- 
derful one;  and  yet,  before  it  was  over,  I  caught 
that  strange  fever  of  unrest  that  sends  birds  migrating 
and  puts  the  Romany  tribes  on  the  move.  With  me 
it  came  as  a  result  of  over-fatigue  and  ill-health;  an 
instinctive  craving  for  the  medicine  of  change.  The 
preceding  London  season  had  been  exacting  and,  in 
Paris,  I  had  not  had  a  moment  in  which  to  really  rest. 
Although  the  days  had  been  filled  most  pleasantly  and 
interestingly,  they  had  been  filled  to  over-flowing,  and 
I  was  very,  very  tired.  So,  in  the  grip  of  the  wander- 
lust, we  packed  our  trunks  and  went  to  Aix-les-Bains. 
We  had  not  the  slightest  idea  what  we  would  do  next. 
My  mother  was  not  very  well,  either,  and  my  coloured 
maid,  Eliza,  had  to  be  in  attendance  upon  her  a  good 
deal  of  the  time,  so  that  I  was  forced  to  consider  the 
detail  of  proper  chaperonage.  We  were  in  a  French 
settlement  and  I  was  a  prima  donna,  fair  game  for 
gossip  and  comment.  Therefore,  I  invited  a  friend  of 
mine,  a  charming  young  Englishwoman,  down  from 
Paris  to  visit  me.  She  was  very  curious  about  America, 
I  remember.  She  was  always  asking  me  about  "the 
States"  and  was  especially  interested  in  my  accounts 
of  the  anti-negro  riots.  The  fact  that  they  had  been 
almost  entirely  instigated  by  the  Irish  Catholics  in 

324 


Led  by  tHe  "Wanderlust  325 

New  York  excited  her  so  that  she  felt  obliged  to  go  and 
talk  with  a  priest  in  Aix  about  it.  It  was  she,  also,  who 
said  something  one  day  that  I  thought  both  amusing 
and  significant. 

"My  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "tell  me  what  are 
'buttered  nuts'?" 

"Never  heard  of  them,"  I  replied. 

" Oh,  yes,  my  dear  Louise,  you  must  have!  They  are 
in  all  American  books!" 

Of  course  she  meant  butternuts,  as  I  laughingly 
explained.  A  moment  later  she  observed  meditatively, 
"you  know,  I  never  take  up  an  American  novel  that 
I  don't  read  some  description  of  food!" 

I  think  what  she  said  was  quite  true.  I  have  re- 
marked it  since.  Although  I  do  not  consider  that  we 
are  a  greedy  nation  in  practice  when  it  comes  to  food, 
we  do  love  reading  and  hearing  about  good  things  to 
eat. 

Presently,  as  my  mother  felt  better  and  had  no  real 
need  of  me,  I  decided  to  take  a  little  trip,  leaving  her  at 
Aix  with  Eliza.  Not  quite  by  myself,  of  course.  I 
never  reached  such  a  degree  of  emancipation  as  that. 
But  I  asked  my  English  friend  to  go  with  me,  and  one 
fine  day  she  and  I  set  out  in  search  of  whatever  enter- 
taining thing  might  come  our  way.  I  had  been  so  held 
down  to  routine  all  my  life,  my  comings  and  goings  had 
been  so  ordered  and  so  sensible,  that  I  deeply  desired 
to  do  a  bit  of  real  gypsy  wandering  without  the  handi- 
cap of  a  travelling  schedule.  No  travelling  is  so  delight- 
ful as  this  sort.  Don  Quixote  it  was,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  who  let  his  horse  wander  whithersoever  he 
pleased,  "believing  that  in  this  consisted  the  very  being 
of  adventures." 

We  went  first  to  Geneva  and  so  over  the  Simplon 


326  An  .American  Prima  Donna 

Pass  into  Italy.  We  dreamed  among  the  lakes,  reading 
guide-books  to  help  us  decide  on  our  next  stopping- 
point.  So,  on  and  on,  until  after  a  while  we  reached 
Vienna.  Three  hours  after  my  arrival  there  Alfred 
Fischoff,  the  Austrian  impresario,  routed  me  out. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

"Nowhere.    That  is  just  the  beauty  of  it!" 

"Ah!"  he  commented  understandingly.  And  then 
he  asked,  "How  would  you  like  to  sing?" 

Even  though  I  was  on  a  pleasure  trip  the  idea  allured 
me,  for  I  always  like  to  sing. 

"Sing  where?"  I  questioned. 

"Here,  in  Vienna." 

"I  couldn't.    I  don't  sing  in  German,"  I  objected. 

"You  could  sing  als  Cast"  (as  a  guest),  he  said. 

Finally  it  was  so  arranged  and,  I  may  add,  I  was  the 
only  prima  donna  except  Nilsson  who  had  ever  been 
permitted  to  sing  in  Italian  at  the  Imperial  Opera 
House,  while  the  other  artists  sang  in  German.  P. 
letter  from  my  mother  to  my  father  at  that  time 
discloses  a  light  upon  her  point  of  view. 

"Louise  telegraphed  for  Eliza  and  her  costumes.  I 
thought  at  first  she  was  crazy,  but  it  appears  she  was 
sane  after  all.  A  fine  Vienna  engagement.  ..." 

It  was  an  undertaking  to  travel  in  Germany  in  those 
days.  The  German  railway  officials  spoke  nothing  but 
German  and,  furthermore,  they  are  never  adaptable 
and  quick  like  the  Italians.  In  France  or  Italy  they 
understood  you  whether  you  spoke  their  language  or 
not;  but  a  Teuton  has  to  have  everything  translated 
into  his  own  untranslatable  tongue.  When  my  mother 
had  finally  gathered  together  my  costumes,  she  wrote 
out  a  long  document  that  she  had  translated  into 
German,  concerning  all  that  Eliza  was  to  do,  and 


Led  by  tHe  "Wanderlust  327 

where  she  was  to  go,  and  gave  it  to  her  so  that  she  could 
produce  it  along  the  way  and  be  passed  on  to  the  next 
official  without  explanation  or  complication.  And  after 
this  fashion  Eliza  and  my  costumes  reached  me  safely. 
She  was  a  good  traveller  and  a  good  maid.  She  was 
also  very  popular  in  that  part  of  the  world.  Negroes 
had  no  particular  stigma  attached  to  them  on  the 
Continent.  Many  of  them  were  no  darker  of  hue  than 
the  Hindu  and  Mohammedan  royalties  who  journeyed 
there  occasionally.  So,  wherever  we  went,  my  good, 
dark-skinned  Eliza  was  a  real  belle. 

There  was  much  to  interest  me  in  Vienna,  not  only  as 
a  foreign  capital  of  note,  but  also  as  a  curiosity.  In  a 
long  life,  and  after  many  and  diverse  experiences,  I 
never  had  been  in  a  city  so  entirely  bound  up  in  its 
own  interests  and  traditions.  The  luckless  sinner 
battering  vainly  upon  the  gates  of  Heaven  has  a  better 
fighting  chance,  all  told,  than  has  the  ambitious  out- 
sider who  aspires  to  social  recognition  by  the  Viennese 
aristocracy.  If  an  American  is  ever  heard  to  say  that 
he  or  she  has  been  received  by  Viennese  society,  those 
hearing  the  speech  may  laugh  in  their  sleeve  and 
wonder  what  society  it  was.  The  thing  cannot  be  done. 
A  handle  to  one's  name,  an  estate,  all  the  little  ear- 
marks of  "nobility"  are  not  only  required  but  insisted 
on.  I  believe  it  to  be  a  safe  statement  to  make  that  no 
one  without  a  title,  and  a  title  recognised  by  the 
Austrians  as  one  of  distinction,  can  be  received  into  the 
inner  circle.  Even  diplomatic  representatives  of  re- 
publics are  not  exempt  from  this  ruling.  They  may 
have  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  and  their  wives  may 
possess  the  beauty  of  Helen  herself,  and  yet  they  are  not 
admitted.  For  this  reason  Austria  is  a  most  difficult 
post  for  republican  legations.  Republican  representa- 


328  A.n  .American  Prima  Donna 

tives  do  not  stay  there  long.  Usually,  the  report  is 
that  they  are  recalled  for  diplomatic  reasons,  or  their 
health  has  failed,  or  some  other  pride-saving  excuse  to 
satisfy  a  democratic  populace.  Vienna  was,  and  I 
suppose  is,  the  dullest  Court  in  the  whole  world.  The 
German  Court  at  one  time  had  the  distinction  of  being 
the  dullest,  but  that  has  looked  up  a  bit  during  the 
reign  of  the  present  Kaiser.  But  Austria!  The  society 
of  Vienna  has  absolutely  no  interest  in  anything  or 
anybody  outside  its  own  sacred  Inner  Circle. 

On  one  occasion  I  was  guilty  of  a  great  breach  of 
etiquette.  Meyerbeer's  son-in-law,  a  Baron  of  good 
lineage,  was  calling  on  me,  and  a  correspondent  from 
The  London  Daily  Telegraph,  whom  I  had  met  socially 
and  not  professionally,  happened  to  be  present.  Al- 
though I  knew  from  my  foreign  experiences  that 
possibly  it  was  hardly  the  correct  thing  to  do,  I,  not 
unnaturally,  presented  them  to  each  othei.  To  my 
surprise  the  Baron  became  stiff  and  the  young  English- 
man somewhat  ill  at  ease.  I  must  say,  however,  the 
Englishman  carried  it  off  better  than  the  Baron  did. 
When  the  Austrian  had  departed,  my  newspaper  ac- 
quaintance told  me  that  I  had  committed  a  social  faux 
pas  in  making  them  known  to  each  other.  Introduc- 
tions are  absolutely  taboo  between  titled  persons  and 
"commoners,"  as  they  are  sternly  called.  A  baron 
could  not  meet  a  newspaper  man! 

As  a  case  in  point,  an  Englishman  of  very  distin- 
tinguished  connections  arrived  in  Vienna  at  the  time 
of  one  of  the  Court  balls.  He  applied  at  his  Embassy 
for  an  invitation,  but  was  told  that  such  a  thing  would 
be  quite  impossible.  Viennese  etiquette  was  too  rigid, 
etc.  Therefore,  he  did  not  go  to  the  ball.  But  it  so 
chanced  that,  a  little  later,  when  he  went  to  call  on  the 


Led  by  tKe  \^anderl\ast  329 

British  Ambassador,  he  mentioned,  casually  enough, 
that  he  had  a  courtesy  title  but  never  used  it  when 
travelling. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so?"  exclaimed  the  Ambassa- 
dor. "I  could  have  got  you  an  invitation  quite  easily, 
if  you  had  only  explained  that!" 

Even  the  opera  was  very  official  and  imperial.  The 
Court  Theatre  was  a  government  house,  and  the 
manager  of  it  an  Intendant  and  a  rather  grand  person. 
In  my  time  he  was  Baron  Hoffman;  and  he  and  the 
Baroness  asked  me  often  to  their  home  and  placed 
boxes  at  the  opera  at  my  disposal,  this  last  courtesy 
being  one  that  the  regular  artists  at  the  opera  are 
never  permitted  to  receive.  The  Imperial  Opera  House 
of  Vienna  is  perhaps  the  most  complete  operatic  organi- 
sation in  existence  and  especially,  at  that  time,  was  the 
company  rich  in  fine  prime  donne.  Mme.  Materna 
was  considered  to  be  the  greatest  dramatic  singer  then 
living.  Mile.  Bianchi  was  a  marvellous  chanteuse  legere, 
the  equal  of  Gerster.  Mme.  Ehn  was  the  most 
poetical  of  prime  donne  and  not  unlike  Nilsson.  Of 
Lucca's  fame  it  is  needless  to  speak  again. 

I  sang  seven  roles  in  Vienna :  Lucia,  the  Ballo  in  Mas- 
chera,  Mignon,  Traviata,  Trovatore,  Marta,  and  one  act 
of  Hamlet, — the  mad  scene,  of  course.  It  was  during 
Marta  that  I  had  paid  to  me  one  of  the  most  satisfying 
compliments  of  my  life.  Dr.  Hanslick  was  then  the 
greatest  musical  critic  of  Europe,  a  distinguished  and 
highly  cultivated  musical  scholar,  even  if  he  did  war 
against  Wagner  and  the  new  school.  To  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  whole  theatre,  between  the  acts,  he  wan- 
dered in  by  himself  behind  the  scenes  to  call  upon  me 
and  offer  his  congratulations.  Only  one  other  singer 
had  ever  been  thus  honoured  by  him  before.  He  was 


33°  -An  American  Prime  Donna 

graciousness  itself  and,  in  his  paper,  the  Neue  Frei 
Presse,  he  wrote  these  memorable  words: 

"Miss  Kellogg  is  an  artist  of  the  first  order — the 
only  one  to  compare  with  Patti.  It  is  the  first  time 
since  Patti  has  gone  that  we  have  heard  what  one  can 
call  singing!  I  congratulate  Vienna  on  having  heard 
such  a  colossal  artist!" 

Later,  I  was  asked  to  the  Hoffmans'  again  to  meet 
Herr  Hanslick  and  his  wife;  and  they  were  only  two 
of  the  many  distinguished  and  interesting  people  that 
I  met  at  the  Intendant's  house.  Sonnenthal  was  one 
of  them,  the  great  actor  from  the  Hoftheatre.  And 
Fanny  Elssler  was  another.  I  wonder  how  many  people 
to-day  know  even  the  name  of  Fanny  Elssler,  the 
dancer  who  captivated  the  young  King  of  Rome  and 
lived  with  him  for  so  long?  There  is  mention  of  her  in 
L'Aiglon.  When  I  met  her  she  was  seventy  odd,  and 
very  quiet  and  dull.  She  was  vastly  respecte  1  in  Austria 
and  held  an  exceedingly  dignified  position. 

I  learned  enough  German  to  be  able  to  sing  in  Ger- 
man for  the  Intendant  and  his  friends,  with  I  know  not 
what  sort  of  accent.  They  were  very  polite  about  it 
always,  saying  more  than  once  to  me,  "what  a  gentle 
accent!"  But  my  German  was  dealt  with  less  kindly 
by  my  audience  one  night.  The  spoken  dialogue  in 
Mignon  simply  had  to  be  made  comprehensible  and 
therefore  I  had  mastered  it,  as  I  thought,  quite  accept- 
ably enough.  But  somewhere  in  it  I  came  what  our 
English  friends  call  a  most  awful  "cropper."  I  do  not 
know  to  this  day  what  dreadful  thing  I  could  have  said, 
but  it  afforded  the  house  an  ecstasy  of  amusement. 
The  whole  audience  laughed  loudly  and  heartily  and 
long;  and  I  confess  I  was  considerably  disconcerted. 
But,  all  things  considered,  the  Viennese  audiences  were 


Led  by  the  Wanderlust  331 

satisfactory  to  sing  to.  They  have  one  little  custom, 
or  mannerism,  that  is  decidedly  encouraging.  When 
they  like  anything  very  much,  they  do  not  break  the 
action  by  applauding,  but,  instead,  a  little  soft  "Ah!" 
goes  all  over  the  house.  It  was  an  indescribably  com- 
forting sound  and  spurred  a  singer  on  to  do  her  best  to 
please  them.  I  sang  Felina  in  Mignon,  and  the  Viennese, 
to  my  eternal  gratitude,  liked  me  in  the  part.  I  remem- 
bered Jarrett  and  the  "wooden  gestures"  he  had  fixed 
upon  me  in  the  role,  and  it  was  most  satisfactory  to  have 
people  in  the  Austrian  Capitol  declare  that  I  was 
"an  exquisite  creation  after  Watteau!"  Of  course  the 
Germans  and  Austrians  were  so  wedded  to  Materna's 
rather  heroic  style  of  singing  that  I  suppose  any  less 
strenuous  methods  might  well  have  struck  them  as 
unforceful,  but — a  propos  of  Materna  and  the  inevitable 
comparison  of  my  work  with  hers — the  Fremden  Blatt 
was  kind  enough  to  print: 

"The  grand  voice,  the  powerful  high  tones,  and  the 
stupendously  passionate  accents  were  not  heard.  Yet 
she  knows  how  to  sing  with  a  full,  strong  voice,  with 
high  tones,  and  with  a  graceful  passionateness ! " 

That  expression  "graceful  passionateness"  has  re- 
mained in  my  vocabulary  ever  since,  for  it  is  a  triumph 
of  clumsy  phraseology,  even  for  a  German  paper. 

I  want  to  quote  Dr.  Hanslick  once  more; — it  is  such 
a  lovely  and  amazing  thing  to  quote: 

"From  her  lips,"  said  this  illustrious  critic,  speaking  of 
your  humble  servant,  "we  have  heard  Verdi's  hardest 
and  harshest  melodies  come  forth  refined  and  softened." 

Is  this  believable?  Edward  Hanslick  did  really  apply 
the  adjectives  "hard"  and  "harsh"  to  Verdi's  music! 
It  has  to  be  read  to  be  believed,  but  what  he  said  is  on 
file. 


332  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

Speaking  of  "gentle  accent, "  I  had,  on  one  occasion, 
the  full  beauty  of  the  Teutonic  language  borne  in  upon 
me  in  a  peculiarly  striking  form.  It  was  in  Robert  der 
Teufel,  that  I  heard  in  Vienna.  The  instance  that 
struck  me  was  in  the  great  scene  during  which  he 
practises  magic  in  the  cave  and  makes  the  dead  to  rise 
so  that  they  can  dance  a  ballet  later  on.  Alice  is 
wandering  around,  and  the  devil  is  in  a  great  state  of 
mind  lest  she  has  seen  or  overheard  something  of  his 
magic. 

"  Was  hast  du  gesehen?"  says  he. 

"Nichts!"  she  replies. 

"Nichts?"  he  repeats. 

" Nichts,"  insists  she. 

That  "  Nichts!  "  was  repeated  over  and  over  until  the 
whole  theatre  echoed  and  resounded  with  "nichts-ts-ts 
ts!"  like  spitting  cats.  There  never  was  anything  less 
musical. 

"Heavens,  Alfred,"  said  I  to  Fischoff,  who  was  with 
me  at  the  time,  "can't  they  change  it  to  ' Nein?" 

But  he  regarded  me  in  a  shocked  manner  at  the  very 
idea  of  so  sacrilegiously  altering  the  text ! 

German  scores  are  full  of  loud  ringing  passages,  built 
on  guttural,  hissing,  spitting  consonants.  But,  then,  we 
must  remember  that  librettists  the  world  over  are 
apparently  men  of  an  inferior  quality  of  intellect  who 
know  little  about  music  or  singing.  I  cannot  help 
feeling  that  by  nature  and  cultivation  the  German 
writers  of  the  texts  for  opera  suffer  from  an  additional 
handicap  of  traditional  density.  Even  one  of  the  great- 
est of  all  operas,  Faust,  suffers  from  being  built  upon  a 
German  theme.  At  least,  I  should  perhaps  say,  it 
suffers  in  sparkle,  vivacity,  dramatic  glitter.  In  the 
deeper,  poetic  meanings  it  remains  impervious  alike  to 


Led  by  the  'Wanderlust  333 

time,  place,  and  individual  view-point.  I  never  fully 
appreciated  the  role  of  Marguerite  until  I  met  the 
German  people  at  close  range.  Then  I  learned  by 
personal  observation  why  she  was  so  dull,  and  limited, 
and  unimaginative.  Such  traits  are,  as  I  suddenly 
realised,  not  only  individual;  they  are  racial.  Any 
middle-class  girl  of  sixteen  might  of  course  have  been 
deceived  by  Faust  with  the  aid  of  Mephisto,  but  that 
Gretchen  was  German  made  the  whole  thing  a  hundred 
times  simpler. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

PETERSBURG 

WHEN  I  received  my  engagement  to  sing  at  the 
Opera  in  Petersburg  I  was  much  pleased.  The 
opera  seasons  in  Russia  had  for  years  been  notably  fine. 
Since  then  they  have,  I  understand,  gone  off,  and 
fewer  and  fewer  stars  of  the  first  magnitude  go  there  to 
sing.  In  1880,  however,  it  was  a  criterion  of  artistic 
excellence  and  position  to  have  sung  in  the  Petersburg 
Opera.  My  mother  and  I,  a  manager  to  represent  me, 
my  coloured  maid  Eliza,  and  some  seventeen  JT  eighteen 
trunks  set  out  from  Vienna;  and  we  looked  forward 
with  pleasurable  anticipation  to  our  winter  in  the 
mysterious  White  Kingdom,  not  knowing  then  that  it 
was  to  be  one  of  the  dreariest  in  our  lives. 

Our  troubles  began  just  before  we  reached  Warsaw, 
when  we  had  to  cross  the  frontier.  We  were,  of  course, 
stopped  for  the  examination  of  passports  and  luggage 
and,  although  the  former  were  all  right,  the  latter  was 
not,  according  to  the  views  of  the  Russian  officials.  I 
had,  personally,  fifteen  trunks,  containing  the  costumes 
for  my  entire  repertoire  and  to  watch  those  Russians 
inspect  these  trunks  was  a  veritable  study  in  suspicion. 
It  was  late  at  night.  Unpleasant  travelling  incidents 
always  happen  late  at  night  it  would  seem,  when  every- 
thing is  most  inconvenient  and  one  is  most  tired.  The 
Russians  appeared  ten  times  more  official  than  the 

334 


Petersburg  335 

officials  of  any  other  nation  ever  did,  and  the  lateness 
of  the  hour  added  to  this  impression.  Indeed  they  were 
highly  picturesque,  with  their  high  boots  and  the  long 
skirts  of  their  coats.  The  lanterns  threw  queer  shadows, 
and  the  wind  that  swept  the  platform  had  in  it  already 
the  chill  of  the  steppes.  I  have  no  idea  what  they 
believed  me  to  be  smuggling,  bombs  or  anarchistic 
literature,  but  they  were  not  satisfied  until  they  had 
gone  through  every  trunk  to  its  uttermost  depths. 
Even  then,  when  they  had  found  nothing  more  danger- 
ous than  wigs  and  cloaks  and  laces,  they  still  seemed 
doubtful.  The  trunks  might  look  all  right;  but  surely 
there  must  be  something  wrong  with  a  woman  who 
travelled  with  fifteen  personal  trunks!  And  I  do  not 
know  that  I  altogether  blame  them.  At  all  events  they 
were  not  going  to  let  me  cross  the  frontier  without 
further  investigation,  and  I  was  rapidly  falling  into 
despair  when,  suddenly,  I  had  a  brilliant  thought.  I 
gave  an  order  to  my  maid,  who  proceeded  to  scatter 
about  the  entire  contents  of  one  trunk  and  finally 
found  for  me  a  large,  thin,  official-looking  document, 
with  seals  and  signatures  attached  to  it.  The  Russians 
stood  about,  watchful  and  mystified.  Then  I  presented 
my  talisman  triumphantly. 

"The  Czar!"  they  exclaimed  in  awed  whispers;  "the 
Czar's  signature!" 

Whereupon  several  of  them  began  bowing,  almost 
genuflecting,  to  show  their  respect  for  anyone  who 
possessed  a  paper  signed  by  the  Czar.  It  was  only  my 
contract.  The  singers  at  the  Russian  Opera  are  not 
engaged  by  an  impresario,  but  by  the  Czar,  and  that 
document  which  served  us  so  well  on  this  occasion  was  a 
personal  contract  with  His  Imperial  Majesty  himself. 

So  we  succeeded  in  eventually  crossing  the  frontier 


336  -An  American  Prima  Donna 

and  getting  into  Russia,  and,  after  that,  the  espionage 
became  a  regular  thing.  The  spy  system  in  Russia  is 
beyond  belief.  One  is  watched  and  tracked  and  fol- 
lowed and  records  are  kept  of  one,  and  a  species  of 
censorship  is  maintained  of  everything  that  reaches  one. 
At  first,  one  hardly  realises  this,  for  the  officials  have 
had  so  much  practice  that  it  is  done  with  the  most 
consummate  skill.  Every  letter  was  opened  before  it 
reached  me  and  then  sealed  up  again  so  cleverly  that 
it  was  impossible  to  detect  it  except  with  the  keenest 
and  most  suspicious  eye.  Every  newspaper  that  I 
received,  even  those  mailed  to  me  by  friends  in  Eng- 
land and  France,  had  been  gone  over  carefully,  and 
every  paragraph  referring  to  Russia — the  army,  the 
government,  the  diplomacy  policy,  the  Nihilistic  agita- 
tions— had  been  stamped  out  in  solid  black. 

We  stopped  at  the  Hotel  d*  Europe,  and  one  might 
think  one  would  be  free  from  surveillance  there.  Not  a 
bit  of  it.  We  soon  saw  that  if  we  wanted  to  talk  with 
any  freedom  or  privacy  we  should  have  to  hang  thick 
towels  over  the  keyholes.  And  this  is  precisely  what 
we  did ! 

As  soon  as  we  reached  Petersburg,  I  was  called  for 
a  rehearsal — merely  a  piano  affair.  I  went  to  it  gar- 
mented in  a  long  fur  cloak,  some  flannel-lined  boots 
that  I  had  once  bought  in  America  for  a  Canadian  trip, 
and  a  little  bonnet  perched,  in  the  awful  fashion  of  the 
day,  on  the  very  top  of  my  head.  It  was  early  in 
October  at  this  time  and  not  any  colder  than  our 
normal  winter  climate  in  the  United  States  of  America. 
There  is  but  little  vibration  of  temperature  in  Russia, 
but  there  are  days  before  November  when  the  snow 
melts  that  are  very  trying.  This  was  one  of  them.  The 
first  thing  that  happened  to  me  at  that  rehearsal,  to 


Petersburg'  337 

which  I  went  in  my  flannel-lined  shoes  and  my  little 
bonnet,  was  that  a  stern  doctor  confronted  me  and 
called  me  to  account  for  the  manner  in  which  I  was 
dressed !  A  doctor  at  a  rehearsal  was  new  to  me ;  but  it 
seemed  that  the  thoughtful  Czar  employed  two  for 
this  purpose.  So  many  singers  pretended  to  be  ill  when 
they  really  were  not  that  His  Majesty  kept  medical 
men  on  the  spot  to  prove  or  disprove  any  excuses.  The 
doctor  who  descended  upon  me  was  named  Thomas- 
chewski.  He  was  the  doctor  mentioned  in  Marie 
BashkirtsefTs  Journal;  and  he  remained  my  friend  and 
physician  all  the  time  I  was  in  the  city.  Said  he, 
brusquely,  on  this  first  meeting: 

"Never  come  out  dressed  like  that  again!  Get  some 
goloshes  immediately,  and  a  hat  that  comes  over  your 
forehead!" 

I  did  not  understand  at  the  moment  why  he  insisted 
so  strongly  on  the  hat.  I  soon  learned,  however,  what 
so  few  Americans  are  aware  of,  that  it  is  through  the 
forehead  that  one  generally  catches  cold.  As  for  the 
goloshes,  it  was  self-evident  that  I  needed  them,  and, 
after  that  morning,  I  never  set  foot  out  of  doors  in 
Russia  without  the  regular  protection  worn  by  every- 
one in  that  climate.  A  big  fur  cap,  tied  on  with  a  white 
woollen  scarf  arranged  as  we  now  arrange  motor  veils, 
completed  the  necessary  outfit. 

Marcella  Sembrich  and  Lillian  Nordica  were  both  in 
the  opera  company  that  year.  Sembrich  had  a  small, 
high,  clear  voice  at  that  time;  but  she  was  always  the 
musician  and  well  up  in  the  Italian  vocal  tricks. 
Scalchi  was  there,  too,  and  Cotogni,  the  famous  bari- 
tone. He  was  a  masterful  singer  and  an  amusing  man, 
with  a  quaint  way  of  putting  things.  He  is  still  living 
in  Rome  and  has,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  fallen  from  his 


338  j\n  .American  Prima  Donna 

great  estate  upon  hard  times.  The  tenors  were  Masini 
and  a  Russian  named  Petrovitch,  with  whom  I  sang 
the  Ballo  in  Maschera.  They  were  all  very  frankly 
curious  about  "the  American  prima  donna1'  and  about 
everything  concerning  her.  The  Intendant  of  the 
Imperial  Opera  was  a  man  with  the  title  of  Baron 
Ktister,  the  son  of  one  of  the  Czar's  gardeners.  No  one 
could  understand  why  he  had  been  made  a  Baron,  but, 
for  some  reason,  he  was  in  high  favour. 

My  debut  was  in  Traviata,  as  Violetta.  There  was  an 
enormous  audience  and  the  American  Minister  was  in 
a  stage  box.  Throughout  the  performance  I  never  lost 
a  sense  of  isolation  and  of  chill.  The  strangeness,  the 
watchfulness,  the  sense  of  apprehension  with  which  the 
air  seemed  charged,  were  all  on  my  nerves.  It  was  said 
that  the  Opera-House  had  been  undermined  by  the 
Nihilists  and  was  ready  to  explode  if  the  Czar  entered. 
This  idea  was  hardly  conducive  to  ease  of  mind  or 
cheerfulness  of  manner.  I  was  glad  that  it  was  not 
sufficiently  a  gala  occasion  for  the  Czar  to  be  present. 
Never  before  had  I  ever  sung  without  having  friends 
in  front,  friends  who  could  come  behind  the  scenes 
between  the  acts  and  tell  me  how  I  was  doing  and,  if 
need  be,  cheer  me  up  a  bit.  I  knew  nobody  in  the 
audience  that  first  night,  which  gave  me  a  most  forlorn 
feeling,  as  if  the  place  were  filled  with  unfriendliness  as 
well  as  with  strangers.  At  last  I  thought  of  the 
American  Minister,  Mr.  Foster  (our  legation  in  Russia 
had  not  yet  attained  the  dignity  of  an  embassy).  I 
sent  my  agent  to  the  Fosters'  box,  asking  them  to 
call  upon  me  in  my  loge  at  the  end  of  the  opera. 
When  he  delivered  the  message,  he  was  met  by  blank 
astonishment. 

"Of  course  we  should  be  delighted — and  it  is  very 


Petersburg  339 

kind  of  Miss  Kellogg,"  said  Mr.  Foster,  "but  there  is 
not  a  chance  that  we  should  be  allowed  to  do  so!" 

And  they  were  not. 

The  vigilance,  even  on  the  stage,  was  something 
appalling.  Every  scene  shifter  and  stage  carpenter  had 
a  big  brass  number  fastened  conspicuously  on  his  arm, 
strapped  on,  in  fact,  over  his  flannel  shirt  so  that 
he  could  be  easily  checked  off  and  kept  track  of. 
Everything  in  Russia  is  numbered.  There  are  no 
individuals  there — only  units.  I  used  to  feel  as  if  I 
must  have  a  number  myself;  as  if  I,  too,  must  soon  be 
absorbed  into  that  grim  Monster  System,  and  my 
feeling  of  helplessness  and  oppression  steadily  increased, 

I  had  over  twenty  curtain  calls  that  evening — the 
largest  number  I  ever  had.  But  they  did  not  entirely 
repay  me  for  the  heaviness  of  heart  from  which  I 
suffered.  Never  before  or  since  was  I  so  unhappy 
during  a  performance.  The  house  had  been  un- 
doubtedly cold  at  first.  As  an  American  correspondent 
to  one  of  the  newspapers  wrote  home:  "The  house  had 
small  confidence  in  an  operatic  singer  from  America, 
for  all  history  of  that  country  is  silent  on  the  subject  of 
prime  donne,  while  there  is  no  lack  of  account  of  such 
other  persons  as  Indians,  Aztecs,  and  emigrants  from 
the  lower  orders  of  Europe!" 

In  Russia  they  still  reserve  the  right  of  hissing  a 
singer  that  they  do  not  like.  It  is  lucky  that  I  did  not 
know  this  then,  for  it  would  have  made  me  even  more 
nervous  than  I  was.  My  curtain  calls  were  a  real 
triumph.  Even  the  ladies  of  the  audience  arose  and 
waved  their  handkerchiefs,  calling  out  many  times: 
"Kellogg,  sola!"  They  wanted  me  to  receive  the 
honours  alone;  and  the  gentlemen  joined  in  their  calls, 
' '  Kellogg !  Kellogg !  Kellogg ! ' '  until  they  were  hoarse. 


34°  An.  American  Prima  Donna 

The  subscribers  to  the  opera  were  divided  into  three 
classes  in  Petersburg;  and,  as  a  singer  who  was  popu- 
lar was  demanded  by  all  the  subscribers  for  each  of  the 
three  nights,  it  was  a  novel  sensation  to  conquer  an 
entirely  new  audience  each  night. 

In  the  Opera-House,  as  in  every  other  house  in 
Petersburg,  one  had  to  go  through  innumerable  doors, 
one  after  the  other.  This  architectural  peculiarity  is 
what  makes  the  buildings  so  warm.  Russians  build  for 
the  cold  weather  as  Italians  build  for  warm.  The  result 
is  that  one  can  be  colder  in  an  Italian  house  than  any- 
where else  on  earth,  and  more  correspondingly  com- 
fortable in  a  Russian.  Even  the  Petersburg  public 
Post-Office  had  to  be  approached  through  eight  separate 
doorways.  There  were  a  number  of  other  unusual 
features  about  that  theatre.  One  was  the  custom  of 
permitting  the  isvoshiks  (drivers)  and  mujiks  (servants) 
to  come  inside  to  stay  while  the  opera  was  going  on.  It 
struck  me  as  most  inconsistent  with  the  general  strict- 
ness and  red  tape;  but  it  was  entertaining  to  see  them 
stowed  away  in  layers  on  ledges  along  the  walls,  sleep- 
ing peacefully  until  the  people  who  had  engaged  them 
were  ready  to  go  home.  Another  odd  thing  was  the 
odour  that  permeated  the  house.  It  was  not  an  un- 
pleasant odour;  it  seemed  to  me  a  little  like  Russia 
leather.  I  could  not  imagine  what  it  was  at  first. 
Afterwards  I  found  that  it  did  come  from  the  sheep- 
skins worn  by  the  isvoshiks.  The  skins  are  cured  in 
some  peculiar  way  which  leaves  them  with  this  faint 
smell. 

The  thing  I  particularly  appreciated  that  first  night 
was  the  honour  and  good  fortune  of  making  my  debut 
with  Masini,  who,  according  to  my  opinion,  was  without 
exception  the  best  tenor  of  his  time.  He  would  have 


Petersburg  341 

pleased  the  most  exacting  of  modern  critics,  for  he  was 
the  true  bel  canto.  It  is  told  of  him  that,  in  the  early 
years  of  his  career,  he  sang  so  badly  out  of  tune  that  no 
impresario  would  bother  with  him.  So  he  retired,  and 
worked,  until  he  had  not  only  overcome  it  but  had  also 
made  himself  into  a  very  great  artist.  The  night  before 
I  sang  with  him,  I  went  to  hear  him.  At  first  I  thought 
his  voice  a  trifle  husky,  but,  before  the  evening  was 
over,  I  did  not  know  if  it  were  husky  or  not,  he  sang 
so  beautifully,  his  method  was  so  perfect,  his  breath- 
control  was  so  wonderful .  It  was  a  naturally  enchanting 
voice  besides.  I  have  never  heard  a  length  of  breath 
like  his.  No  phrase  ever  troubled  him;  he  had  the 
necessary  wind  for  anything.  In  L'  Africaine  there 
is  a  passage  in  the  big  tenor  solo  needing  very  careful 
breathing.  Masini  did  s:.mply  what  he  liked  with  it, 
swelling  it  out  roundly  and  generously  when  it  seemed 
as  if  his  breath  must  be  exhausted.  When  the  breath 
of  other  tenors  gave  out,  Masini  only  just  began  to 
draw  on  his.  I  am  placing  all  this  emphasis  on  his 
method  because  I  know  breathing  to  be  the  whole 
secret  of  singing — and  of  living,  too!  Masini  was  a 
grave,  kind  man,  not  a  great  actor,  but  with  a  stage 
presence  of  complete  repose  and  dignity.  His  manner 
to  me  was  charmingly  thoughtful  and  considerate  dur- 
ing our  work  together.  Yet  he  was  a  man  who  never 
spoke.  I  mean  this  literally:  I  cannot  recall  the  sound 
of  his  speaking  voice,  although  I  rehearsed  with  him  for 
a  whole  season.  His  greatest  role  was  the  Duke  in 
Rigoletto  and  there  was  no  one  I  ever  heard  who  could 
compare  with  him  in  it. 

Nordica  was  a  young  singer  doing  minor  roles  that 
season  and,  both  being  Americans,  we  saw  a  good  deal 
of  each  other  and  exchanged  sympathies,  for  we  equally 


342  -A.n  American  Prima  Donna 

disliked  Russia.  Our  Yankee  independence  was  being 
constantly  outraged  by  the  Russian  spy  system,  and 
we  were  always  at  odds  with  it.  One  night,  when  we 
were  not  singing  ourselves,  we  had  a  box  together  to 
hear  our  fellow-artists,  and  invited  Sir  Frederick  Hamil- 
ton to  share  it  with  us.  As  we  knew  there  was  sure  to 
be  a  crowd  after  the  opera,  Nordica  suggested  that  we 
should  leave  our  wraps  in  an  empty  dressing-room 
behind  the  scenes  and  go  out  by  that  way  when  the 
performance  was  over.  This  we  accordingly  did,  going 
behind  through  the  house  by  the  back  door  of  the 
boxes,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  we  took  Sir  Frederick 
with  us.  We  had  momentarily  forgotten  that  in  Russia 
one  never  does  what  one  wants  to,  or  what  seems  the 
natural  thing  to  do.  When  we  were  discovered  bring- 
ing an  Englishman  behind  the  scenes,  there  was  nearly 
a  revolution  in  that  theatre ! 

I  sang  in  Traviata  four  or  five  times  in  Petersburg 
and  in  Don  Giovanni  and  in  Semiramide.  This  last  was 
the  forty-fifth  role  of  my  repertoire.  The  Russian  Opera 
season  was  less  brilliant  than  usual  that  year  because 
the  Czarina  had  recently  died  and  the  Court  was  in 
mourning.  The  situation  was  one  that  afforded  me 
some  amusement.  The  Czar,  Alexander,  who  was 
killed  that  same  winter,  had  for  a  long  time  lived  with 
the  Princess  Dolgoruki,  as  is  well  known,  and,  when 
the  Czarina  died,  he  married  the  Dolgoruki  within  a 
few  weeks.  To  be  sure,  the  marriage  did  not  really 
count,  for  she  could  never  be  a  Czarina  because  she 
was  not  royal,  but  she  was  determined  to  establish  her 
social  position  as  his  wife  and  insisted  on  keeping  him 
in  the  country  with  her  at  one  of  the  out-of-the-way 
places.  And  all  the  time  the  Czar  went  right  on  with 
his  official  mourning  for  the  Czarina!  There  was  some- 


Petersburg  343 

thing  about  this  that  strongly  appealed  to  my  American 
sense  of  humour.  When  the  Czar  did  finally  leave  the 
country  palace  and  come  back  to  Petersburg,  he  was  in 
such  fear  of  the  Nihilists  that  he  did  not  dare  come  in 
state,  but  got  off  the  train  at  a  way-station  and  drove 
in.  Fancy  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias  having  to  sneak 
into  his  own  city  like  that !  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
all  that  vigilance  was  proved  soon  after  to  have  been 
justified.  Because  of  the  situation  of  affairs,  the  Royal 
Box  at  the  Opera  was  never  occupied.  Even  the 
Czarevitch  and  his  wife  (Dagmar  of  Denmark,  sister 
of  Alexandra  of  England)  could  not  appear.  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that,  on  the  whole,  Petersburg 
society  was  rather  glad  of  the  dull  season.  As  there 
were  no  Court  functions,  the  individual  social  leaders 
did  not  have  to  keep  up  their  end  either,  and  it  must 
have  been  a  relief,  for  times  were  hard,  owing  to  the 
recent  Nihilistic  panic,  and  Russians  do  not  know  how 
to  entertain  unless  they  can  do  it  magnificently.  As  a 
result  of  the  dull  social  season,  I  did  not  go  out  much 
in  society.  But  I  was  much  interested  in  such  glimpses 
as  I  had  of  it,  for  "smart"  Russia  is  most  gorgeously 
picturesque.  Many  Americans  visit  Petersburg  in  sum- 
mer when  everyone  is  away  and  so  never  see  the  true 
Russian  life.  Indeed,  it  is  a  very  stunning  spectacle. 
The  sleighs,  the  splendid  liveries,  the  beautiful  horses, 
the  harnesses,  the  superb  furs — it  is  all  like  a  pageant. 
I  loved  to  see  the  troikas  drawn  by  three  horses,  with 
great  gold  ornaments  on  the  harnesses ;  and  the  drozhkis 
in  which  the  isvoshiks  drive  standing  up.  The  third 
horse  of  the  troika  is  one  of  the  typically  Russian 
features.  He  is  attached  to  the  pair  that  does  the  work, 
and  his  part  is  to  play  the  fool. 

I  remember  a  famous  sleigh  ride  I  had  in  a  very 


344  -A-n  American  Prima  Donna 

smart  drozhki,  behind  a  horse  belonging  to  one  of  the 
English  Embassy  secretaries.  The  horse  was  an  ex- 
traordinarily fast  one  and  the  drozhki  was  exceptionally 
light  and  small.  The  seat  was  so  narrow  that  the 
secretary  and  I  had  to  be  literally  buttoned  into  it  to 
keep  us  from  falling  out.  The  isvoshik's  seat  was  so 
high  that  he  was  practically  standing  erect  and  nearly 
leaning  back  against  it.  Evidently  the  man's  directions 
were  to  show  off  the  horse's  gait  to  the  best  advantage ; 
and  I  know  that  the  speed  of  that  frail  sleigh  upon  the 
icy  snow  crust  became  so  terrific  that  I  had  to  grip  the 
sash  of  the  isvoshik  in  front  of  me  to  stay  in  the  sleigh 
at  all. 

And,  oh,  the  flatness  and  mournfulness  of  those  chill 
wastes  of  snow  outside  the  city!  It  was  of  course 
bitterly  cold,  but  one  did  not  feel  that  so  much  on 
account  of  the  fine  dryness  of  the  air.  For  me  the 
light — or,  rather,  the  lack  of  it, — was  the  most  difficult 
thing  to  become  accustomed  to.  But  if  I  did  not 
altogether  realise  the  cold  for  myself,  I  certainly  real- 
ised it  for  my  poor  horses.  I  had  a  splendid  pair  of 
blacks  that  winter  and,  when  I  was  driven  down  to  the 
theatre,  they  would  be  lathered  with  sweat.  When  I 
came  out  they  would  be  covered  with  ice  and  as  white 
as  snow.  There  would  be  ice  on  the  harness  too,  and 
the  other  horses  we  passed  were  in  the  same  condition. 
I  was  much  distressed  at  first,  but  it  appeared  that 
Russian  horses  were  quite  used  to  it  and,  so  I  was  told, 
actually  throve  on  it. 

Petersburg  is  full  of  little  squares  and  in  every 
square  were  heaps  of  logs,  laid  one  across  another  like  a 
funeral  pyre,  which  were  frequently  lighted  as  a  place 
for  the  isvoshiks  to  warm  themselves.  The  leaping 
flames  and  the  men  crowded  about,  in  such  contrast  to 


Petersburg  345 

the  white  snow,  seemed  so  startling  and  theatrical  in 
the  heart  of  the  city  that  nothing  could  have  more 
sharply  reminded  us  that  we  were  in  a  strange  and 
unknown  land. 

The  fact  that  the  days  were  so  unbelievably,  gloomily 
short  (dawn  and  bright  noonday  and  the  afternoon 
were  unknown)  grew  to  be  very  depressing.  Coasting 
on  the  great  ice-hills  is  a  favourite  Russian  amusement, 
and  it  is  a  fine  winter  sport.  But  that,  too,  is  shadowed 
by  the  strange  half-light,  which,  to  anyone  accus- 
tomed to  the  long,  bright  days  of  more  temperate 
lands,  is  always  conducive  to  melancholy.  There  was 
no  sun  to  speak  of.  Such  as  there  was  moved  around 
in  almost  one  place  and  stopped  shining  at  four  in  the 
afternoon.  I  never  had  the  least  idea  of  the  time; 
hardly  knowing,  in  fact,  whether  it  was  day  or  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

GOOD-BYE   TO   RUSSIA — AND   THEN? 

PRINCE  OLDENBURG,  the  Czar's  cousin,  was  the 
only  member  of  the  Royal  Family  who  could  be 
called  a  patron  of  music  and  had  himself  composed 
more  or  less.  On  his  seventy-fifth  birthday  the  Imper- 
ial Opera  organised  a  concert  in  his  honour,  that  took 
place  at  the  Winter  Palace;  and  we  were  really  quite 
intriguee,  having  heard  of  the  Winter  Palace  for  years. 
I  said  to  Nordica: 

"If  you  '11  find  out  how  we  get  there,  I  '11  send  my 
carriage  for  you  and  we  will  go  together. " 

She  found  out,  and  we  arranged  to  have  the  hotel 
people  instruct  the  coachman  as  to  the  particular 
entrance  of  the  palace  to  which  he  was  to  drive  us,  for 
he  was  a  Russian  and  did  not  understand  any  other 
language.  Once  started,  he  had  to  go  according  to 
instructions  or  else  turn  around  and  take  me  back  to 
the  hotel  for  new  directions  and  a  fresh  start.  More 
than  once  have  I  found  myself  in  such  a  dilemma. 
However,  on  this  occasion,  he  seemed  to  be  fairly  clear 
as  to  our  destination  and  showed  gleams  of  intelligence 
when  reminded  that  he  must  make  no  mistake,  since 
there  were  only  certain  doors  by  which  we  could  enter. 
The  others  were  open  only  to  the  Royal  Family  and  the 
nobility. 

Among  the  five  prime  donne  who  had  been  invited, 

346 


Good-bye  to  Russia — and  THen?      347 

or,  rather,  commanded,  to  appear  at  this  function, 
there  had  been  some  discussion  as  to  our  costumes. 
All  of  them  except  myself  sent  for  special  gowns,  one 
to  Paris,  one  to  Vienna,  one  to  Berlin,  one  to  Dresden 
— for  this  concert  was  to  be  before  members  of  the 
Imperial  Family  and  extra  preparations  had  to  be 
made. 

"What  are  you  going  to  wear?"  Nordica  asked  me. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  '11  never  be  in  Russia  again — God 
permitting — and  I  shall  wear  a  gown  that  I  have,  a 
creation  of  Worth's,  made  some  years  ago,  without 
period  or  date."  It  was  really  a  gorgeous  affair  and 
quite  good  enough,  of  an  odd,  warm,  rust  colour  that 
was  always  very  becoming  to  me. 

We  arrived  at  the  palace  before  anyone  else  and 
were  driven  to  the  door  indicated.  There  we  were  not 
permitted  to  enter,  but  were  directed  to  yet  another 
entrance.  Again  we  met  with  the  same  refusal  and 
were  sent  on  to  another  door.  At  last  we  drove  in 
under  a  porte-cochere  and  an  endless  stream  of  lackeys 
came  out  and  took  charge  of  us.  When  they  had  es- 
corted us  inside,  one  took  one  golosh,  and  one  took 
another,  and  then  they  took  off  our  furs  and  wraps,  and 
there  was  no  escape  for  us  except  by  mounting  the 
beautiful  red-carpeted  marble  staircase.  At  the  top 
of  it  we  were  met  by  two  very  good-looking  young  men 
in  uniform,  who  received  us  cordially  and  escorted  us 
to  the  ballroom,  leaving  us  only  when  the  other  artists 
arrived.  The  other  artists  looked  cross,  I  thought. 
At  any  rate,  they  looked  somewhat  ill  at  ease  and 
conscious  of  their  elegant  new  clothes.  It  was  the 
crackling,  ample  period,  in  which  it  was  difficult  to  be 
graceful.  About  the  middle  of  the  evening  Dr.  Thomas- 
chewski  came  up  to  me  and  said: 


348  An  American  Prima  Donna 

"The  Grand  Duchess  Olga  desires  me  to  ask  who 
made  Mile.  Kellogg's  gown.  She  finds  it  the  hand- 
somest she  ever  saw!" 

So  much  for  my  old  clothes!  I  was  thankful  to  be 
able  to  say  the  gown  was  a  creation  of  Worth's;  and  I 
did  not  add  how  many  years  before!  The  next  day, 
after  the  affair  of  the  concert  was  pleasantly  over, 
Nordica  came  into  my  room  like  a  whirlwind. 

"There's  the  d to  pay  down  in  the  theatre!" 

she  exclaimed  breathlessly.  "All  the  other  prime  donne 
are  threatening  to  resign!  And,  apparently,  it  is  our 
fault!" 

"What  have  we  done?" 

"  It  seems,"  she  went  on  with  an  appreciative  chuckle, 
"that  we  came  up  the  Royal  Staircase  and  were  received 
as  members  of  the  Imperial  Family,  while  they  had  to 
come  in  the  back  way  as  befitted  poor  dogs  of  artists!" 

"Nordica,"  said  I,  "isn't  that  just  plain  American 
luck!  Such  a  thing  could  never  happen  to  anybody  but 
an  American!" 

We  learned  in  due  course  that  our  handsome  young 
men,  who  had  been  so  agreeable  and  courteous,  were 
Grand  Dukes!  But  the  other  prime  donne  recovered 
from  their  mortification  and  thought  better  of  their 
project  of  resigning. 

We  began  to  be  frightfully  tired  of  Russian  food. 
The  Russian  arrangement  for  cold  storage  was  very 
primitive.  They  merely  froze  solid  anything  they 
wanted  to  keep  and  unfroze  it  when  it  was  needed 
for  use.  The  staple  for  every  day,  and  all  day,  was 
gelinotte,  some  sort  of  game.  We  lived  on  it  until  we 
were  ready  to  starve  rather  than  ever  taste  it  again.  It 
was  not  so  bad,  really,  in  its  way,  if  there  had  not  been 
so  much  of  it.  Some  of  the  Russian  food  was  possible 


Good-bye  to  Russia — and  THen?      349 

enough,  however.  The  famous  sour  milk  soup,  for 
instance,  made  of  curdled  milk  and  cabbage  and,  I 
think,  a  little  fish,  was  rather  nice ;  and  they  had  a  pretty 
way  of  serving  Vouchers  between  the  soup  and  fish 
courses.  But  my  mother  and  I  began  to  feel  that  we 
should  die  if  we  did  not  have  some  plain  American 
food.  In  fact,  we  both  developed  a  vulgar  craving  for 
corned-beef.  And,  wonder  of  wonders!  by  inquiring 
at  a  little  shop  where  garden  tools  were  sold,  we  found 
the  thing  we  longed  for.  As  it  turned  out,  the  shop  was 
kept  by  an  American  and  his  wife;  so  we  got  our 
corned-beef  and  my  mother  made  delicious  hash  of  it 
over  our  alcohol  lamp.  She  was  famous  for  getting  up 
all  manner  of  dainty  and  delicious  food  with  a  minute 
saucepan  and  a  tiny  spirit  flame. 

The  water  everywhere  was  horrid  and  we  were 
obliged  to  boil  it  always  before  we  dared  to  take  a 
swallow.  And  all  these  things  told  on  my  poor  mother, 
whose  health  was  becoming  very  wretched.  She  came 
to  hate  Russia  and  pined  to  get  away.  So  I  tried  to 
break  my  contract  and  leave  (considering  my  mother's 
health  a  sufficiently  valid  reason),  but,  although  money 
was  due  me  that  I  was  willing  to  forfeit,  I  found  I  could 
not  go  until  I  had  sung  out  the  full  term  of  my  engage- 
ment. I  was  so  wrathful  at  this  that  I  went  to  see 
the  American  Minister  about  leaving  in  spite  of  every- 
thing ;  but  even  he  was  powerless  to  help  us.  Apparently 
the  Russians  were  accustomed  to  having  their  country 
prove  too  much  for  foreign  singers,  for  the  Minister 
remarked  meditatively: 

"Finland  used  to  be  open,  but  so  many  artists 
escaped  that  way  that  it  is  now  closed!" 

It  proved  to  be  even  harder  to  get  out  of  Russia  than 
it  had  been  to  get  in.  One  mother  and  daughter  whom 


35°  .A.n  American  Prime  Donna 

I  knew  went  to  five  hotels  in  twenty-four  hours,  trying 
to  evade  the  officials,  so  as  to  leave  without  the  usual 
red  tape;  but  they  were  kept  merciless  track  of  every- 
where and  their  passports  sent  for  at  every  one  of  the 
five.  Such  proceedings  must  be  rather  expensive  for 
the  government.  Some  Russian  friends  of  mine  once 
came  to  Aix  without  notifying  their  governmental 
powers  and  were  sent  for  to  come  back  within  twenty- 
four  hours.  Fancy  being  kept  track  of  like  that!  I 
am  devoutly  thankful  that  I  do  not  live  under  a  paternal 
government.  In  time,  however,  we  did  succeed  in 
obtaining  permission  to  leave  Russia;  and  profoundly 
glad  were  we  of  it.  I  had  but  one  desire  before  we  left 
that  dark  and  frigid  land  forever,  and  that  was  to  see 
the  Czar  just  once.  My  friends  of  the  English  Embassy 
told  me  that  my  best  chance  would  be  on  the  route 
between  the  Winter  Palace  and  the  Military  Riding 
Academy,  where  the  Czar  went  every  Sunday  to  stimu- 
late horsemanship.  So  I  started  out  the  following 
Sunday,  alone,  in  my  brougham. 

There  were  crowds  of  the  faithful  blocking  the  way 
everywhere — well  interspersed  with  Nihilists,  I  have 
little  doubt.  Russian  men  are,  on  the  whole,  impressive 
in  appearance;  big  and  fierce  and  immensely  virile. 
They  are  half-savage,  anyway.  The  better  class  wear 
coats  lined  and  trimmed  with  black  or  silver  fur;  while 
a  crowd  of  soldiers  and  peasants  make  a  most  pictur- 
esque sight.  On  this  occasion  the  cavalry  and  mounted 
police  patrolled  the  route,  and  ranks  of  soldiers  were 
drawn  up  on  either  side.  Yet  there  was  such  a  surging 
populace  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  military  surveillance, 
there  was  some  confusion.  I  was  driven  up  and  down 
very  slowly.  Then  I  grew  cold  and  got  out  of  the  car- 
riage to  walk  for  a  short  distance.  I  had  gone  but  a 


Good-bye  to  IVussia — and  XKen?      351 

little  way  and  was  turning  back  when  I  felt  a  hand  on 
my  shoulder.  It  was  an  official  who  informed  me  that 
I  might  drive  but  could  not  be  permitted  to  walk!  So 
I  re-entered  the  brougham  and  was  driven  again,  up  and 
down,  bowing  sweetly  each  time  to  the  officer  who  had 
halted  me  and  dared  to  take  me  by  the  shoulder.  And, 
finally,  I  caught  only  a  glimpse  of  the  Czar,  through 
the  hosts  of  guardians  that  surrounded  him  like  a 
cloud.  I  could  not  believe  that  he  cared  for  all  that 
pomp  and  ceremony,  for  he  was  a  weary-looking  man 
and  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  I  believe  that  he  would  have 
been  as  democratic  as  anyone  could  well  be  if  he  could 
only  have  had  half  a  chance.  The  wife  of  the  shop- 
keeper who  sold  garden  tools  told  me  that  the  Czar 
was  perfectly  accessible  to  them  and  very  friendly. 
He  liked  new  inventions  and  patents  and  ingenious 
farming  implements  and  American  machine  inven- 
tions. A  man  I  once  knew  had  been  trying  for  months 
to  obtain  an  official  introduction  at  Court  in  order  to 
exploit  a  patent  which  he  thought  would  interest  His 
Majesty,  and  in  vain.  But,  when  he  chanced  to  meet  a 
friend  of  the  Czar's  in  a  picture  gallery  and  told  him 
about  his  idea,  he  had  no  further  difficulty.  His 
Minister,  who  had  told  him  it  was  hopeless  to  try  to 
get  access  to  the  Czar,  was  amazed  to  find  him  going 
about  at  the  Court  balls  in  the  most  intimate  manner. 

' '  How  did  you  do  it  ?  "  he  demanded.  ' '  How  did  you 
manage  to  reach  the  Czar?" 

"Just  met  him  through  a  friend  as  I  would  any  other 
fellow, "  was  the  reply. 

We  were  in  Petersburg  at  the  Christmas  and  New 
Year's  celebrations,  which  are  held  two  weeks  later  than 
ours  are.  The  customs  were  odd  and  interesting— 
notably  the  one  of  driving  out  in  a  sleigh  to  "meet  the 


S52  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

New  Year  coming  in. "  This  pretty  custom  was  always 
observed  by  Mme.  Helena  Modjeska  and  her  husband, 
Count  Bozenta,  even  in  America.  I  went  to  services 
in  several  of  the  churches,  where  I  heard  divine  singing, 
unaccompanied  by  any  instrument.  The  vibrations 
were  very  slow  and  throbbed  like  the  tones  of  an  organ. 
Nothing  can  be  more  splendid  than  bass  voices.  The 
decorations  of  the  churches  were  strange  and  barbaric 
to  eyes  accustomed  to  the  Italian  and  French  cathe- 
drals. The  savagery  as  well  as  the  orientalism  of  the 
Russians  comes  out  in  a  curious  way  in  their  ecclesias- 
tical architecture.  The  walls  were  often  inlaid  with 
lapis  and  malachite,  like  the  decorations  of  some 
Eastern  temple,  and  the  ikons  were  painted  gaudily 
upon  metals.  There  were  no  pews  of  any  sort;  the 
populace  dropped  upon  its  knees  and  stayed  there. 

The  little  wayside  shrines  erected  over  every  spot 
where  anything  tragic  had  ever  happened  to  a  royal 
person  are  an  interesting  feature  of  worship  in  Russia. 
As  the  rulers  of  Russia  have  usually  passed  rather 
calamitous  lives,  there  are  plenty  of  these  shrines,  and 
loyal  subjects  always  kneel  and  make  them  reverence. 
I  could  see  one  of  these  shrines  from  my  window  in 
the  Hotel  d'  Europe  and  marvelled  at  the  devout 
fervour  of  the  kneeling  men  in  their  picturesque  cloaks, 
praying  for  this  or  some  other  Emperor,  with  the 
thermometer  far  below  zero.  It  was  always  the  men 
who  prayed.  I  do  not  remember  ever  seeing  a  woman 
on  her  knees  in  the  snow. 

Our  experiences  in  the  shops  of  Petersburg  were 
sometimes  interesting.  Of  course  in  the  larger  ones 
French  was  spoken,  and  also  German,  but  in  the  small 
places  where  "notions"  were  sold,  or  writing  materials, 
only  Russian  was  understood.  To  facilitate  the  shop- 


Good-bye  to   Russia — and  TKen?      353 

ping  of  foreigners,  little  pictures  of  every  conceivable 
thing  for  sale  were  hung  outside  the  shops.  All  one 
had  to  do  was  to  point  to  the  reproduction  of  a  spool, 
or  a  safety  pin,  or  an  egg,  or  a  trunk,  and  produce  a 
pocketbook.  One  day  my  mother  wanted  some  shoe 
buttons  and  we  wagered  that  she  could  not  buy  them 
unaided.  I  felt  sure  there  would  be  no  painting  of  a 
shoe  button  on  the  shop  wall.  But  she  came  back 
victoriously  with  the  buttons,  quite  proud  of  herself 
because  she  had  thought  of  pointing  to  her  own  boots 
instead  of  wasting  time  hunting  among  the  pictures. 

It  was  the  collection  of  Colonel  Villiers  that  first 
awakened  in  me  an  interest  in  old  silver,  and  the 
beginning  I  made  in  Russia  that  winter  ended  in  my 
possessing  a  collection  of  value  and  beauty.  Villiers 
was  a  member  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  family 
and  was  a  Queen's  Messenger,  a  position  of  responsibil- 
ity and  trust.  And  I  had  several  other  friends  at  the 
British  Embassy.  Lord  and  Lady  Dufferin  I  knew; 
and  one  of  the  secretaries,  Mr.  Alan,  now  Sir  Alan 
Johnston,  who  married  Miss  Antoinette  Pinchot,  sister 
of  Gifford  Pinchot,  I  had  first  met  in  Vienna.  The 
night  that  Villiers  arrived  in  Petersburg  (before  I  had 
met  him)  some  of  the  English  attaches  had  been  invited 
to  dine  with  us;  but  the  First  Secretary  arrived  at  the 
last  moment  to  explain  that  the  Queen's  Messenger  was 
expected  with  private  letters  and  that  they  had  to  be 
received  in  person  and  handed  in  at  Court  promptly. 

"It's  the  only  way  they  have  of  sending  really 
private  letters,  you  see,"  he  explained.  "Alexandra 
probably  wants  to  tell  Dagmar  about  the  children's 
last  attacks  of  indigestion,  so  we  have  to  stay  at  home 
to  receive  the  letters!" 

Well — the  glad  day  did  finally  come  when  my  mother 
23 


354  An  American.  Prima  Donna 

and  I  turned  our  backs  on  Russia  and  its  eternal  twi- 
light and  repaired  to  Nice  for  a  little  amusement  and 
recuperation  after  the  Petersburg  season.  A  number  of 
our  friends  were  there,  and  it  was  unusually  gay.  I 
was  warmly  welcomed  and  congratulated,  for  Peters- 
burg had  put  the  final  cachet  upon  my  success.  Although 
I  might  win  other  honours,  I  could  win  none  that  the 
world  appraised  more  highly  than  those  that  had  come 
to  me  that  year.  In  a  letter  to  my  father,  from  Nice, 
my  mother  says: 

The  Grand  Duke  Nicholas  has  been  here  in  our  hotel 
a  month,  and  his  two  sons  and  suite,  doctor,  Aide-de-camp, 
and  servants.  There  is  an  inside  balcony  running  two  sides 
of  the  hotel  which  is  lovely;  but  the  whole  is  square  with 
other  rooms — this  width  carpeted — sofa — chairs — table — a 
glass  roof.  We  all  assemble  there  after  dinner,  and  sit 
around  and  talk,  take  cafe  and  tea  on  little  tables.  .  .  . 
We  sat  every  day  after  dinner  close  to  the  Grand  Duke  (the 
Czar's  brother)  and  his  suite;  knew  his  doctor  and  finally 
the  Duke  and  his  sons.  I  was  sitting  on  the  balcony, 
because  I  could  see  everybody  who  came  in  or  who  went  out, 
and  I  was  looking  down  and  saw  the  Grand  Duke  receive 
the  despatch  of  the  assassination — and  the  commotion  and 
emotion  was  the  most  exciting  thing  I  ever  witnessed.  The 
Grand  Duke  is  a  most  amiable  gentleman,  sweet  and  good 
as  a  man  can  be;  his  son,  sixteen,  was  the  loveliest  and 
most  gentle  and  affectionate  of  sons.  I  looked  at  the  Duke 
all  the  time.  I  was  almost  upset  myself  by  the  excitement. 
Despatches  came  every  twenty  minutes.  I  looked  on — sat 
there  seven  hours.  As  the  Russians  outside  heard  of  it  they 
would  come  in — I  saw  two  women  cry — the  Duke  stayed 
in  his  room — I  heard  that  he  had  fainted — he  is  in  somewhat 
delicate  health.  ...  It  seemed  as  if  the  others  were 
looking  around  for  their  friends  and  for  sympathy,  as  was 
natural.  I  had  not  talked  much  with  the  Doctor  because 


Good-bye  to  IVxissia — and  THen?      355 

I  never  felt  equal  to  it  in  French — especially  on  ordinary 
subjects  of  conversation — but  he  looked  up  and  saw  me  on 
the  balcony  and  came  directly  to  me.  I  took  both  his 
hands — the  tears  came  into  his  eyes — and  we  talked — the 
words  came  to  me,  enough  to  show  him  we  were  his  friends. 
I  said  America  would  sympathise  with  Russia.  He  seemed 
pleased  and  said,  ' '  Yes ;  but  Angleterre,  no ! "  I  did  not  have 
much  to  say  to  that.  But  I  did  him  good.  He  told  Louise 
and  me  the  particulars.  We  both  knew  the  very  spot  near 
the  bridge  where  the  Czar  had  fallen.  Our  sympathy  was 
mostly  with  the  man  whose  brother  had  been  murdered 
and  his  friends.  There  was  a  long  book  downstairs  in  which 
people  who  came  in  wrote  their  names  from  time  to-  time. 
I  do  not  understand  it  exactly,  but  Louise  says  it  contains 
the  names  of  those  who  feel  an  allegiance.  Many  Russians 
came  in  the  day  of  the  assassination  and  wrote  their  names. 
Our  Consul  wrote  his,  and  a  beautiful  sentence  of  sympathy. 
He  wanted  to  lower  our  flag,  but  dared  not,  quite.  Louise 
and  I  went  down  and  wrote  ours — and,  while  standing,  the 
Duke's  physician  said  to  us  that  there  had  not  been  one 
English  name  signed.  The  hotel  is  all  English,  nearly.  It 
was  an  interesting,  eventful  day.  The  Duke  was  pleased 
when  Louise  told  him  his  people  had  been  very  kind  to  her 
in  Russia  at  Petersburg.  They  all  left  day  before  yesterday 
at  6  P.M. 

The  assassination  of  the  Czar  took  place  three  weeks 
to  the  day  from  that  Sunday  when  I  had  seen  him.  It 
all  came  back  to  me  very  clearly,  of  course — the  troops, 
the  crowding  people,  and  the  snow.  No  wonder  they 
were  watchful  of  him,  poor  man! 

The  bottom  dropped  out  of  the  season  at  Nice  and 
people  began  to  flit  away.  The  tragedy  of  the  Czar's 
death  spread  a  shadow  over  everything.  Nobody  felt 
much  like  merry-making  or  recreation,  and,  again,  I 
was  becoming  restless — restless  in  a  new  way. 


356  .An  American  Prima  Donna 

"Mother,"  I  said,  "let's  go  back  to  America.  I 
have  had  enough  of  Nice  and  Petersburg  and  Paris 
and  Vienna  and  London.  I  'm  tired  to  death  of  foreign 
countries  and  foreign  ways  and  foreign  audiences  and 
foreign  honours.  I  want  to  go  home!" 

"Thank  God!"  said  my  mother. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  LAST  YEARS  OF  MY  PROFESSIONAL  CAREER 

AT  Villefranche,  on  our  way  to  Nice,  I  had  been 
given  a  formal  reception  by  the  officers  of  the 
flagship  Trenton,  that  was  then  lying  in  the  harbour. 
Admiral  Dahlgren  was  in  command,  and  the  reception 
was  more  of  a  tribute  to  the  prima  donna  than  a  per- 
sonal tribute.  It  was  arranged  under  the  auspices  of 
Lieutenant  Emory  and  Lieutenant  Clover;  and  I  did 
not  sing.  Emory  was  a  natural  social  leader  and  the 
whole  affair  was  perfect  in  detail.  A  much  more  inter- 
esting reception,  however,  arranged  by  Lieutenant 
Emory,  was  the  informal  one  given  me  by  the  same 
hosts  not  long  after.  Although  informal,  it  was  con- 
ducted on  the  same  lines  of  elegance  that  marked  every 
social  function  with  which  Emory  was  ever  connected. 
As  soon  as  we  appeared  on  the  gun  deck,  accompanied 
by  Lieutenant-Commander  Gridley,  to  be  presented  to 
Captain  Ramsay,  the  orchestra  greeted  us  with  the 
familiar  strains  of  Hail,  Columbia!  At  the  end  of  the 
dejeuner  the  whole  crew  contemplated  us  from  afar  as  I 
conversed  with  our  hosts,  and,  realising  what  might  be 
expected  of  me,  I  sang,  as  soon  as  the  orchestra  had 
adjusted  their  instruments,  the  solo  of  Violetta  from 
Traviata:  Ah  force  e  lui  che  I  'anima.  As  an  encore  I 
sang  Down  on  the  Suwanee  River.  The  orchestra  not 
being  able  to  accompany  me,  I  accompanied  myself 

357 


An  .American  Prima  Donna 

on  a  banjo  that  happened  to  be  handy.  I  was  told 
afterwards  that  "the  one  sweet,  familiar  plantation 
melody  was  better  to  us  than  a  dozen  Italian  cava- 
tinas. "  After  the  Suwanee  River,  I  sang  yet  another 
negro  melody,  The  Yaller  Gal  Dressed  in  Blue,  which  was 
received  with  much  appreciative  laughter. 

On  our  way  from  Nice  we  went  to  Milan  to  visit  the 
Exposition,  which  was  an  artistically  interesting  one, 
and  at  which  we  happened  to  see  the  father  and  mother 
of  the  present  King  of  Italy.  From  Milan  we  went  to 
Aix-les-Bains ;  and  from  there  to  Paris. 

I  returned  to  America  without  an  engagement;  but 
on  October  5th  the  Kellogg  Concert  Company,  under 
the  management  of  Messrs.  Pond  and  Bachert,  gave 
the  first  concert  of  a  series  in  Music  Hall,  Boston.  I 
was  supported  by  Brignoli,  the  " silver- voiced  tenor," 
Signer  Tagliapietra,  and  Miss  Alta  Pease,  contralto. 
With  us,  also,  were  Timothie  Adamowski,  the  Polish 
violinist;  Liebling,  the  pianist,  and  the  Weber  Quartette. 
My  reception  in  America,  after  nearly  two  years' 
absence  abroad,  was,  really,  almost  an  ovation.  But 
I  want  to  say  that  Boston  has  always  been  particularly 
gracious  and  cordial  to  me.  By  way  of  showing  how 
appreciative  was  my  reception,  I  cannot  resist  giving 
an  extract  from  the  Boston  Transcript  of  the  following 
morning : 

Her  singing  of  her  opening  number,  Filina's  Polonaise  in 
Mignon,  showed  at  once  that  she  had  brought  back  to  us 
unimpaired  both  her  voice  and  her  exquisite  art ;  that  she  is 
now,  as  formerly,  the  wonderfully  finished  singer  with  the 
absolutely  beautiful  and  true  soprano  voice.  Her  stage 
experience  during  the  past  few  years,  singing  taxing  grand 
soprano  parts,  so  different  and  more  trying  to  the  vocal 


Close  of  my  Professional  Career       359 

physique  than  the  light  florid  parts,  the  Aminas,  Zerlinas, 
and  Elviras,  she  began  by  singing,  seems  to  have  had  no 
injurious  effect  upon  the  quality  and  trueness  of  her  voice, 
which  has  ever  been  fine  and  delicate;  just  the  sort  of 
beautiful  voice  which  one  would  fear  to  expose  to  much 
intense  dramatic  wear  and  tear.  Its  present  perfect  purity 
only  proves  how  much  may  be  dared  by  a  singer  who  can 
trust  to  a  thoroughly  good  method. 

In  the  following  May  I  sang  with  Max  Strakosch's 
opera  company  in  Providence  to  an  exceptionally  large 
audience.  One  of  the  daily  newspapers  of  the  city  said, 
in  reference  to  this  occasion: 

Miss  Kellogg  must  take  it  as  a  compliment  to  herself 
personally,  for  the  other  artists  were  unknown  here,  and 
therefore  it  must  have  been  her  name  that  attracted  so 
many.  She  has  always  been  popular  here,  and  has  made 
many  personal  as  well  as  professional  friends.  She  must 
have  added  many  more  of  the  latter  last  night,  for  she  never 
appeared  to  better  advantage.  She  was  well  supported  by 
Signer  Giannini  as  Faust  [we  gave  Faust  and  I  was  Mar- 
guerite] and  Signer  Mancini  as  Mephistopheles. 

This  same  year,  1882, 1  went  on  a  concert  trip  through 
the  South.  In  New  Orleans  I  had  a  peep  into  the 
wonderful  pawnshops,  large,  spacious,  all  filled  with 
beautiful  things.  I  had  long  been  a  collector  of  pewter 
and  silver  and  old  furniture  and,  on  this  trip,  took 
advantage  of  some  of  my  opportunities.  For  instance, 
I  bought  the  bureau  that  had  belonged  to  Barbara 
Frietchie,  and  a  milk  jug  and  some  spoons  that  had 
belonged  to  Henry  Clay.  Also,  I  visited  Libby  Prison 
and  various  other  prisons,  a  battle-field,  and  several 
cemeteries.  One  cemetery  was  half  filled  with  the 
graves  of  boys  of  seventeen,  eighteen,  and  nineteen 


360  .An  .American  Prima  Donna 

years  of  age,  showing  that  in  the  Civil  War  the  South 
could  not  have  kept  it  up  much  longer.  The  sight  was 
pitiful! 

In  1884  I  went  on  a  concert  tour  with  Major  Pond 
in  the  West,  making  of  it  so  far  as  we  could,  as  Pond 
said,  something  of  a  picnic.  We  crossed  by  the  North- 
ern Pacific,  seeing,  I  remember,  the  ranch  of  the  Due  de 
Morney,  son  of  the  Due  de  Morney  who  was  one  of 
Louis  Philippe's  creations,  and  who  had  married  the 
daughter  of  a  wealthy  ranchman,  Baron  von  Hoffman. 
The  house  of  his  ancestor  in  the  Champs  Elysees  and 
the  house  next  door  that  he  built  for  his  mistress  were 
points  of  interest  in  Paris  when  I  first  went  there.  In 
Miles  City,  on  the  way  to  Helena,  Montana,  we  visited 
some  of  the  gambling  dens,  and  were  interested  in 
learning  that  the  wildest  and  worst  one  in  the  place 
was  run  by  a  Harvard  graduate.  The  streets  of  the 
town  were  strangely  deserted  and  this  we  did  not 
understand  until  a  woman  said  to  me: 

"Umph!  they  don't  show  themselves  when  respect- 
able people  come  along!" 

My  memory  of  the  trip  and  of  the  Yellowstone  Park 
consists  of  a  series  of  strangely  beautiful  and  primitive 
pictures.  We  passed  through  a  prairie  fire,  when  the 
atmosphere  was  so  hot  and  dense  that  extra  pressure 
of  steam  was  put  on  our  locomotive  to  rush  our  train 
through  it.  Never  before  had  I  seen  Indian  women 
carrying  their  papooses.  I  particularly  recall  one  settle- 
ment of  wigwams  on  a  still,  wonderful  evening,  the 
chiefs  gorgeous  in  their  blankets,  when  the  fires  were 
being  lighted  and  the  spirals  of  smoke  were  ascending 
straight  up  into  the  clear  atmosphere.  One  day  a 
couple  of  Indians  ran  after  the  train.  They  looked 
very  fine  as  they  ran  and  finally  succeeded  in  getting 


Close  of  my  Professional  Career       361 

on  to  the  rear  platform,  where  they  rode  for  some  dis- 
tance. At  Deer  Lodge  I  sang  all  of  one  evening  to  two 
fine  specimens  of  Indian  manhood.  We  went  down  the 
Columbia  River  in  a  boat,  greatly  enjoying  the  im- 
pressive scenery.  One  of  my  most  vivid  mental  im- 
pressions was  that  of  an  Indian  fisherman,  standing 
high  out  over  the  rushing  waters,  at  least  forty  feet  up, 
on  a  projection  of  some  kind  that  had  been  built  for  the 
purpose  of  salmon  fishing,  his  graceful,  vigorous  bronze 
form  clearly  silhouetted  against  the  background  of  rock 
and  foliage  and  sky.  On  the  banks  of  the  river  farther 
along  we  saw  a  circus  troupe  boiling  their  supper  in  a 
huge  caldron  and  smoking  the  kalama  or  peace  pipe. 
I  was  so  hungry  I  wanted  to  eat  of  the  caldron's  con- 
tents but,  on  second  thoughts,  refrained.  And  we 
stopped  at  Astoria  where  the  canning  of  salmon  was 
done,  a  town  built  out  over  the  river  on  piles.  The 
forest  fires  had  caused  some  confusion  and,  for  one 
while,  we  could  hardly  breathe  because  of  the  smoke. 
Indeed  we  travelled  days  and  days  through  that  smoke. 
The  first  cowboy  I  ever  saw  drove  me  from  the  station 
of  Livingston  through  Yellowstone  Park.  In  Butte 
City  my  company  went  down  into  the  Clarke  Copper 
Mine,  but  I  did  not  care  to  join  them  in  the  undertak- 
ing. Our  first  sight  of  Puget  Sound  was  very  beautiful. 
And  it  was  at  Puget  Sound  that  I  first  saw  half-,  or, 
rather,  quarter-breeds.  I  remember  Pond  saying  how 
quickly  the  half-breeds  die  of  consumption. 

Later,  that  same  year,  I  went  South  again  on  another 
concert  tour.  All  through  the  State  of  Mississippi  there 
was  a  strange,  horrible  flavour  to  the  food,  I  recall,  and, 
so  all -pervading  was  this  flavour  that  finally  I  could 
hardly  eat  anything.  The  contralto  and  I  were  talking 
about  it  one  day  on  the  train  and  saying  how  glad  we 


362  y\n  .American  Prixna  Donna 

should  be  to  get  away  from  it.  There  being  no  parlour- 
cars,  we  were  in  an  ordinary  coach,  and  a  woman  who 
sat  in  front  of  me  and  overheard  us,  turned  around  and 
said: 

"I  know  what  you  mean!  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is. 
It 's  cotton  seed.  Everything  tastes  of  cotton  seed  in 
this  country.  They  feed  their  cows  on  it,  and  their 
chickens.  Everything  tastes  of  it ;  eggs,  butter,  biscuits, 
milk!" 

This  was  true.  The  only  thing,  it  seems,  that  could 
not  be  raised  on  cotton  seed  was  fruit;  and  unfortu- 
nately it  was  not  a  fruit  season  when  I  was  there. 

The  recollection  of  this  trip  necessitates  my  saying 
a  little  something  of  Southern  hospitality.  I  was  not 
satisfied  with  any  of  the  arrangements  that  had  been 
made  for  me.  I  had  also  taken  a  severe  cold,  and,  when 
we  reached  Charlottesville,  where  we  were  to  give  a 
concert,  I  said  I  would  not  go  on.  This  brought  matters 
to  a  climax.  I  simply  would  not  and  could  not  sing  in 
the  condition  I  was;  and  declared  I  would  not  be  sub- 
jected to  any  such  treatment  as  the  insistence  of  the 
management.  The  end  of  it  was  that  I  took  my  maid 
and  started  for  New  York. 

The  trip  at  first  promised  to  be  a  very  uncomfortable 
one.  Travelling  accommodations  were  poor;  food  was 
difficult  to  obtain,  and  I  was  nearly  ill.  At  one  point, 
where  the  opening  of  a  new  bridge  had  just  taken  place, 
we  stopped,  and  I  noticed  a  private  car  attached  to  our 
train,  which  I  coveted.  Imagine  my  gratitude  and 
pleasure,  therefore,  when  the  porter  presently  came  to 
me  and  said  courteously  that  "Colonel  Cawyter"  sent 
his  compliments  and  invited  me  into  his  private  car.  I 
accepted,  of  course.  But  this  was  not  all.  As  I  was 
making  inquiries  about  train  connections  and  facilities 


Close  of  my  Professional  Career       363 

for  food,  of  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  the  car,  he  realised 
what  was  before  me,  and  said  that  I  could  go  to  his 
home  where  his  wife  would  care  for  me.  I  protested,  but 
he  insisted  and  gave  me  his  card.  When  we  reached  the 
station,  I  took  a  carriage  and  drove  to  the  house,  where 
I  was  received  very  courteously.  It  was  a  simple  house- 
hold of  a  mother,  grandmother,  and  children,  and  they 
had  already  lunched  when  I  got  there.  But  they  piled 
on  more  coal,  and  in  a  very  short  time  made  me  a  lunch 
that  was  simply  delicious — all  so  easily,  simply,  and 
naturally,  in  spite  of  the  haphazard  fashion  in  which 
they  seemed  to  live,  as  to  quite  win  my  admiration. 
And  this  incident  of  Southern  hospitality  enabled  me 
to  proceed  on  my  way  nourished  and  restored. 

Another  incident  that  I  recall  was  of  a  similar  nature 
in  its  fundamental  kindness.  I  had  no  money  with 
which  to  pay  for  my  berth,  and  was  asking  the  conduc- 
tor if  there  was  anyone  who  would  cash  a  check  for  me, 
when  a  perfect  stranger  offered  me  the  amount  I 
needed.  At  first  I  refused,  but  finally  consented  to 
accept  the  loan  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  it  had  been 
offered. 

On  the  reorganised  version  of  this  trip  we  went  down 
into  Texas,  giving  concerts  in  Waco,  Dallas,  Cheyenne, 
San  Antonio,  and  Galveston,  among  other  places.  This 
was  before  the  wonderful  railroad  had  been  built  that 
runs  for  miles  through  the  water;  and  before  the  tidal 
wave  that  wiped  the  old  Galveston  out  of  existence. 
At  Cheyenne,  I  remember,  we  had  to  ford  a  river  to 
keep  our  engagement.  At  Waco  a  negro  was  found 
under  the  bed  of  one  of  the  company;  a  bridge  was 
burning;  and  a  posse  of  men,  with  bloodhounds,  was 
starting  out  to  track  the  incendiaries.  I  remember 
speaking  there  with  a  negro  woman  who  had  a  white 


364  An  .American  Frima  Donna 

child  in  her  charge.  The  child  was  busily  chewing  gum 
and  the  woman  told  me  that  often  the  child  would  put 
her  hand  on  her  jaw  saying,  "Oh,  I  'm  so  tired!"  But 
she  could  not  be  induced  to  stop  chewing!  At  Dallas 
we  sang  in  a  hall  that  had  a  tin  roof,  and,  during  the 
concert,  a  terrific  thunderstorm  came  on,  so  that  I  had 
to  stop  singing.  This  is  the  only  time,  I  believe,  that 
the  elements  ever  succeeded  in  drowning  me  out.  I 
never  before  had  seen  adobe  houses,  and  I  found  San 
Antonio  very  interesting,  and  drove  as  far  as  I  could 
along  the  road  of  the  old  Spanish  Missions  that  main- 
tain the  traditions  and  aspects  of  the  Spanish  in  the 
New  World.  The  Southern  theatres  are  the  dirtiest 
places  that  can  be  imagined;  and  I  recall  eating  opos- 
sum that  was  served  to  us  with  great  pride  by  my 
waiter. 

From  this  time  on  I  did  not  contemplate  any  long 
engagements.  I  did  not  care  for  them,  although  I 
sometimes  went  to  places  to  sing — and  to  collect 
pewter! 

I  never  formally  retired  from  public  life,  but  quietly 
stopped  when  it  seemed  to  me  the  time  had  come.  It 
was  a  Kansas  City  newspaper  reporter  who  incidentally 
brought  home  to  me  the  fact  that  I  was  no  longer  very 
young.  I  had  a  few  grey  hairs,  and,  after  an  interview 
granted  to  this  representative  of  the  press — a  woman, 
by  the  way — I  found,  on  reading  the  interview  in 
print  the  next  day,  that  my  grey  hairs  had  been 
mentioned. 

"They  '11  find  that  my  voice  is  getting  grey  next," 
I  said  to  myself. 

I  really  wanted  to  stop  before  everybody  would  be 
saying,  "You  ought  to  have  heard  her  sing  ten  years 
ago!" 


Carl  Strakosch 

From  a  photograph  by  H.  W.  Barnett 


Close  of  my  Professional  Career       365 

The  last  time  I  saw  Patti  I  said  to  her: 
"  Adelina,  have  you  got  through  singing?" 
"Oh,  I  still  sing  for  mes  pauvres  in  London,"  she 
replied ;  but  she  did  n't  explain  who  were  her  poor. 

On  my  last  western  concert  tour  I  sang  at  Oshkosh. 
A  special  train  of  three  cars  on  the  Central  brought 
down  a  large  delegation  for  the  occasion  from  Fond  du 
Lac,  Ripon,  Neenah  and  Menasha,  Appleton  and  other 
neighbouring  towns.  The  audience  was  in  the  best  of 
humour  and  a  particularly  sympathetic  one.  At  the 
close  of  the  concert  I  remarked  that  it  was  one  of  the 
finest  audiences  I  ever  sang  to.  And  I  added,  by  way 
of  pleasantry,  that,  having  sung  at  Oshkosh,  I  was  now 
indeed  ready  to  leave  the  stage ! 

But  there  were  even  more  serious  reasons  that 
influenced  me  in  my  decision,  one  of  which  was  that  my 
mother  had  for  some  time  past  been  in  a  poor  state  of 
health.  More  than  once,  when  I  went  to  the  theatre, 
I  had  the  feeling  that  she  might  not  be  alive  when  I 
returned  home;  and  this  was  a  nervous  strain  to  me 
that,  combined  with  a  severe  attack  of  bronchitis, 
brought  about  a  physical  condition  which  might  have 
had  seriously  lasting  results  if  I  had  not  taken  care  of 
myself  in  time. 

It  was  not  easy  to  stop.  When  each  autumn  came 
around,  it  was  very  difficult  not  to  go  back  to  the  public. 
I  had  an  empty  feeling.  There  is  no  sensation  in  the 
world  like  singing  to  an  audience  and  knowing  that  you 
have  it  with  you.  I  would  not  change  my  experience 
for  that  of  any  crowned  head.  The  singer  and  the 
actor  have,  at  least,  the  advantage  over  all  other 
artists  of  a  personal  recognition  of  their  success; 
although,  of  course,  the  painter  and  writer  live  in  their 
work  while  the  singer  and  the  actor  become  only 


366  -A.n  American  Frima  Donna 

traditions.    But  such  traditions!    On  the  subject  of  the 
actor's  traditions  Edwin  Booth  has  written : 

In  the  main,  tradition  to  the  actor  is  as  true  as  that 
which  the  sculptor  perceives  in  Angelo,  the  painter  in 
Raphael,  and  the  musician  in  Beethoven.  .  .  .  Tradition, 
if  it  be  traced  through  pure  channels  and  to  the  fountain- 
head,  leads  one  as  near  to  Nature  as  can  be  followed  by  her 
servant,  Art.  Whatever  Quinn,  Barton  Booth,  Garrick, 
and  Cooke  gave  to  stagecraft,  or  as  we  now  term  it,  "busi- 
ness," they  received  from  their  predecessors ;  from  Betterton 
and  perhaps  from  Shakespeare  himself,  who,  though  not 
distinguished  as  an  actor,  well  knew  what  acting  should  be ; 
and  what  they  inherited  in  this  way  they  bequeathed  in 
turn  to  their  art  and  we  should  not  despise  it.  Kean  knew 
without  seeing  Cooke,  who  in  turn  knew  from  Macklin,  and 
so  back  to  Betterton,  just  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it. 
Their  great  Mother  Nature,  who  reiterates  her  teachings 
and  preserves  her  monotone  in  motion,  form  and  sound, 
taught  them.  There  must  be  some  similitude  in  all  things 
that  are  True! 

The  traditions  of  singing  are  not  what  they  used  to  be, 
however,  for  the  new  school  of  opera  does  not  require 
great  finish,  although  it  does  demand  greater  dramatic 
art.  It  used  to  be  that  Tetrazzinis  could  make  suc- 
cesses through  coloratura  singing  alone;  but  to-day 
coloratura  singing  has  no  great  hold  on  the  public  after 
the  novelty  has  worn  off.  But  it  does  very  well  in 
combination  with  heavier  music,  as  in  Mozart's  Magic 
Flute  or  The  Huguenots,  and  so  modern  singers  have  to 
be  both  coloraturists  and  dramaticists.  A  propos  of 
singing  and  methods,  I  append  a  newspaper  interview 
that  a  reporter  had  with  me  in  Paris,  1887.  He  had 
been  shown  a  new  dinner  dress  of  white  moire  with  ivy 
leaves  woven  into  the  tissue,  and  writes: 


-^±^ 


s£~^<    ^^_     ^<^  - 


_^2_- 


/*->   ^  'x^l_ 
•z^- 


Letter  from  Edwin  Booth  to  Clara  Louise  Kellogg 


Close  of  my  Professional  Career       367 

I  examined  the  rustling  treasure  critically  and  decided  it 
was  a  complete  success.  The  train  was  long,  the  stuff  rich, 
the  taste  perfect,  and  yet — the  great  essential  was  wanting, 
I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the  transformation  which  would 
come  over  that  regal  robe  were  it  once  hung  on  the  shapely 
shoulders  of  the  famous  prima  donna. 

"  You  see,  there  is  nothing  like  singing  to  fill  out  dresses 
where  they  should  be  filled  out,  and  conversely,"  said 
Sbriglia,  who  happened  to  be  present  as  we  came  back  into 
the  salon;  "  consequently  my  advice  to  all  ladies  who  wish 
to  improve  their  figure  is  to  take  vocal  lessons." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Miss  Kellogg,  "if  they  can  only  find  right 
instruction.  But,  unfortunately  good  teachers  nowadays 
are  rarer  than  good  voices.  Even  the  famous  Paris  Con- 
servatory does  n't  contain  good  vocal  instruction.  If  there 
be  any  teaching  in  the  world  which  is  thoroughly  worthless, 
it  is  precisely  that  given  in  the  Rue  Berg£re.  But  I  cannot 
do  justice  to  the  subject.  Do  give  us  your  ideas,  Professor, 
about  the  Paris  Conservatory  and  the  French  School  of 
voice  culture." 

"As  to  any  French  vocal  school,"  replied  Sbriglia, 
"there  is  none.  Each  professor  has  a  system  of  his  own 
that  is  only  less  bad  than  the  system  of  some  rival  professor. 
One  man  tells  you  to  breathe  up  and  down  and  another 
in  and  out.  One  claims  that  the  musical  tones  are  formed 
in  the  head,  while  another  locates  them  in  the  throat. 
And  when  these  gentlemen  receive  a  fresh,  untrained  voice, 
their  first  care  is  to  split  it  up  into  three  distinct  parts 
which  they  call  registers,  and  for  the  arrangement  of  which 
they  lay  down  three  distinct  sets  of  rules. 

"As  to  the  Conservatory,  it  is  a  national  disgrace;  and  I 
have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  it  not  only  does  no  good, 
but  is  actually  the  means  of  ruining  hundreds  of  fine 
voices.  Look  at  the  results.  It  is  from  the  Conservatory 
that  the  Grand  Opera  chooses  its  French  singers,  and  the 
simple  fact  is  that  in  the  entire  personnel  there  are  no  great 
French  artists.  There  are  artists  from  Russia,  Italy,  Ger- 


368  A.n  .American  Prirna  Donna 

many,  and  America,  but  there  are  none  from  France.  And 
yet  the  most  talented  students  of  the  Conservatory  make 
their  debuts  there  every  year  with  fine  voices  and  brilliant 
prospects;  but,  as  a  famous  critic  has  well  said,  'after 
singing  for  three  years  under  the  system  which  they  have 
been  taught,  they  acquire  a  perfect  "style"  and  lose  their 
voice. ' 

"You  ask  me  what  I  consider  to  be  the  correct  method. 
I  dislike  very  much  the  use  of  the  word  'method, '  because 
it  seems  to  imply  something  artificial;  whereas  in  all  the 
vocal  processes,  there  is  only  a  single  logical  method  and 
that  is  the  one  taught  us  all  by  nature  at  our  birth.  Watch 
a  baby  crying.  How  does  he  breathe?  Simply  by  pushing 
the  abdomen  forward,  thus  drawing  air  into  the  lungs,  to 
fill  the  vacuum  produced,  and  then  bringing  it  back  again, 
which  expels  the  air.  And  every  one  breathes  that  way, 
except  certain  advocates  of  theoretical  nonsense,  who 
have  learned  with  great  difficulty  to  exactly  reverse  this 
operation.  Such  singers  make  a  bellows  of  the  chest, 
instead  of  the  abdomen,  and,  as  the  strain  to  produce  long 
sounds  is  evidently  greater  in  forcing  the  air  out  than  in 
simply  drawing  it  in,  their  inevitable  tendency  is  to  unduly 
contract  the  chest  and  to  distend  the  abdomen." 

"Let  me  give  you  an  illustration  of  the  truth  of  M. 
Sbriglia's  argument,"  said  Miss  Kellogg,  rising  from  her 
seat.  "Now  watch  me  as  I  utter  a  musical  note."  And 
immediately  the  rich  voice  that  has  charmed  so  many 
thousands  filled  the  apartment  with  a  clear  "a-a-a-a"  as 
the  note  grew  in  volume. 

"You  see  Miss  Kellogg  has  little  to  fear  from  consump- 
tion!" exclaimed  Sbriglia.  "And  I  am  convinced  that 
invalids  with  disorders  of  the  chest  would  do  well  to  stop 
taking  drugs  and  study  the  art  of  breathing  and  singing." 

"And  even  those  who  have  no  voice, "  said  Miss  Kellogg, 
"would  by  this  means  not  only  improve  in  health  and 
looks,  but  would  also  learn  to  read  and  speak  correctly, 
for  the  same  principles  apply  to  all  the  vocal  processes.  It 


Close  of  my  Professional  Career       369 

is  astonishing  how  few  people  use  the  voice  properly.  For 
instance  I  could  read  in  this  tone  all  the  afternoon  without 
fatigue,  but  if  I  were  to  do  this "  (making  a  perceptible 
change  in  the  position  of  her  head) ,  "  I  should  begin  to  cough 
before  finishing  a  column.  Don't  you  notice  the  difference? 
In  the  one  case  the  sounds  come  from  here"  (touching  her 
chest)  "and  are  free  and  musical ;  but  in  the  other,  I  seem  to 
speak  in  my  throat,  and  soon  feel  an  irritation  there  which 
makes  me  want  the  traditional  glass  of  sugar  and  water." 

"The  irritation  which  accompanies  what  you  call  'speak- 
ing in  the  throat,'"  explained  Sbriglia,  "is  caused  by 
pressing  too  hard  upon  the  vocal  cords,  that  become,  in 
consequence,  congested  with  blood,  instead  of  remaining 
white  as  they  should  be.  Persons  who  have  this  habit 
grow  hoarse  after  very  brief  vocal  exertion,  and  it  is  largely 
for  that  reason  that  American  men  rarely  make  fine  singers. 
On  the  other  hand,  look  at  Salvini,  who,  by  simply  knowing 
how  to  place  his  voice,  is  able  to  play  a  tremendous  part 
like  Othello  without  the  slightest  sense  of  fatigue. 

"About  the  American  'twang'?     Oh,  no,  it  does  not 
injure  the  voice.     On  the  contrary,  this  nasal  peculiarity, 
especially  common  among  your  women,  is  of  positive  value 
in  a  proper  production  of  certain  tones." 
24 


CODA 

THE  Coda  in  music  is,  literally,  the  tail  of  the 
composition,  the  finishing  off  of  the  piece.  The 
influence  of  Wagner  did  away  with  the  Coda:  yet,  as 
my  place  in  the  history  of  opera  is  that  of  an  exponent 
of  the  Italian  rather  than  the  German  form,  I  feel  that 
a  Coda,  or  a  last  few  words  of  farewell,  is  admissible. 

In  some  ways  the  Italian  opera  of  my  day  seems 
banal.  Yet  Italian  opera  is  not  altogether  the  thing 
of  the  past  that  it  is  sometimes  supposed  to  be.  More 
and  more,  I  believe,  is  it  coming  back  into  public  favour 
as  people  experience  a  renewed  realisation  that  melody 
is  the  perfect  thing,  in  art  as  in  life.  I  believe  that 
Mignon  would  draw  at  the  present  time,  if  a  good  cast 
could  be  found.  But  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  good 
cast. 

Italian  opera  did  what  it  was  intended  to  do: — it 
showed  the  art  of  singing.  It  was  never  supposed  to  be 
but  an  accompaniment  to  the  orchestra  as  German 
opera  often  is ;  an  idea  not  very  gratifying  to  a  singer, 
and  sometimes  not  to  the  public.  Yet  we  can  hardly 
make  comparisons.  Personally,  I  like  German  opera 
and  many  forms  of  music  beside  the  Italian  very  much, 
even  while  convinced  of  the  fact  that  German  critics 
are  not  the  whole  audience.  At  least,  the  opera  could 
not  long  be  preserved  on  them  alone. 

It  seems  to  me  as  I  look  back  over  the  preceding 
pages  that  I  have  put  into  them  all  the  irrelevant 

370 


! 


Coda  371 

matter  of  my  life  and  left  out  much  that  was  impor- 
tant. Many  of  my  dearest  roles  I  have  forgotten  to 
mention,  and  many  of  my  most  illustrious  acquaint- 
ances I  have  omitted  to  honour.  But  when  one  has 
lived  a  great  many  years,  the  past  becomes  a  good  deal 
like  an  attic :  one  goes  there  to  hunt  for  some  particular 
thing,  but  the  chances  are  that  one  finds  anything  and 
everything  except  what  one  went  to  find.  So,  out  of  my 
attic,  I  have  unearthed  ever  so  many  unimportant 
heirlooms  of  the  past,  leaving  others,  perhaps  more 
valuable  and  more  interesting,  to  be  eaten  by  moths 
and  corrupted  by  rust  for  all  time. 

There  is  very  little  more  for  me  to  say.  I  do  not 
want  to  write  of  my  last  appearances  in  public.  Even 
though  I  did  leave  the  operatic  stage  at  the  height  of 
my  success,  there  is  yet  something  melancholy  in  the 
end  of  anything.  As  Richard  Hovey  says: 

There  is  a  sadness  in  all  things  that  pass; 
We  love  the  moonlight  better  for  the  sun, 
And  the  day  better  when  the  night  is  near. 
The  last  look  on  a  place  where  we  have  dwelt 
Reveals  more  beauty  than  we  dreamed  before, 
When  it  was  daily  .  .  . 

In  our  big,  young  country  of  America  there  are  the 
possibilities  of  many  another  singer  greater  than  I  have 
been.  I  shall  be  proud  and  grateful  if  the  story  of  my 
high  ambitions,  hard  work,  and  kindly  treatment  should 
chance  to  encourage  one  of  these.  For,  while  it  is  true 
that  there  is  nothing  that  should  be  chosen  less  lightly 
than  an  artistic  career,  it  is  also  true  that,  having 
chosen  it,  there  is  nothing  too  great  to  be  given  up  for 
it.  I  have  no  other  message  to  give;  no  further  lesson 
to  teach.  I  have  lived  and  sung,  and,  in  these  memories, 


372  An  American  Prima  Donna 

have  tried  to  tell  something  of  the  living  and  the 
singing:  but  when  I  seek  for  a  salient  and  moving  word 
as  a  last  one,  I  find  that  I  am  dumb.  Yet  I  feel  as  I 
used  to  feel  when  I  sang  before  a  large  audience. 
Somewhere  out  in  the  audience  of  the  world  there  must 
be  those  who  are  in  instinctive  sympathy  with  me. 
My  thoughts  go  wandering  toward  them  as,  long  ago, 
my  thoughts  would  wander  toward  the  unknown 
friends  sitting  before  me  in  the  theatre  and  listening. 
So  poignant  is  this  sense  within  me  that,  halting  as  my 
message  may  have  been,  I  feel  quite  sure  that  somehow, 
here  and  there,  some  one  will  hear  it,  responsive  in  the 
heart. 


INDEX 


Abbott,  Emma,  in   Camille,  70; 

meeting  with,  272-275;  320 
Academy  of  Music,  the,  debut  of 

Kellogg  at,  33 ;  stage  conditions 

at,  37;   director  of,  40;  winter 

season  at,  91;  benefit  at,  92; 

return  to,  201 ;  258,  259,  263 
Adam,  Mme.,  304 
Adamowski,  Timothie,  358 
Adams,  Charles,  298 
Adams,  Maud,  in  Joan  of  Arc,  66 
Aida,  292,  301,  302, 307 
Albani,  Mme.,  235 
Albertini,  294 
Albites,  suggestion  of,  102 
Alboni,   Mme.,   Rovere  and,  94; 

anecdote  of,  175 
Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  47,  48 
Alexander,  John,  281 
Amina,  the  role  of,  64;  the  opera 

of,  65;  Murska  as,  296 
Amodio,  13;  personal  appearance 

of,    14;    in    Don   Giovanni,   74 
Amonasro,  307 
Andrede,  Joseph,  300 
Annetta,    91;    contrast    between 

Marguerite  and,  93;  Malibran 

as,  94;  Grisi  as,  94;  Kellogg  as, 

93.94,96 

Anschutz,  Faust  and,  78 
Appleton,  Tom,  46,  47 
Arditi,    135,    138,    162-164,    168, 

171,  173 

Armitage,  Sir  George,  195-198 
Association,    Peace   Jubilee,    235 
Azucena,  249 

Babcock,  William,  7 
Bachert,  Pond  and,  358 
Balfe,  261,262 

Ballo  in   Maschera,  55,  62,  329, 
338 


Banjo,  first  mention  of,  8,  music 

of,  9;  old  man  and  the,  217,  218; 

accompaniment  of,  358 
Barbiere,  II,  realistic  performance 

of, .38;  56,  91,  97,  167,  277, 
Barbizon  School,  306 
Barlow,  Judge  Peter,  102 
Barlow,  Mrs.  Samuel,  276-279 
Bateman  concerts,  101 
Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  214 
Beethoven,     78;      Jubilee,     209; 

Okakura    and    music    of,  219; 

reference  to,  366 
Behrens,     Siegfried,     263,     264, 

267 
Bellini,    54;    traditions    of,    67; 

music  of,  80 
Benedict,  Sir  Jules,  6,  197,  261, 

262 
Bennett,     James     Gordon,     251, 

303 

Bennett,  Mr.,  164,  174,  238 
Bentinck,    Mrs.    Cavendish,    190 
Bernhardt,  208 
Beware,     Longfellow     and,     46; 

singing  of,  175,  178,  197 
Bey,  Khalil,  156, 157 
Biachi  as  Mephistopheles,  86 
Bianchi,  Mile.,  329 
Bierstadt,  Albert,  160 
Bizet,  305 

Black,  Valentine,  305 
Boheme,  La,  91 

Bohemian  Girl,  The,  257,  259 
Booth,    Edwin,   letter   from,    16; 

on  stage  traditions,  366 
Booth,  Wilkes,  i  n 
Borde,    Mme.     de     la,    in     1  c-s 

Huguenots,  13;   voice  of,  13 
Borgia,  Lucretia,  Grisi  as,  159 
Bososio,  Mile.,  as  Prascovia,  102 
Boucicault,  Dion,  15,  262 


373 


374 


Index 


Brignoli,  13,  14;  tour  with,  22; 
temper  of,  22,  23;  origin  of,  24: 
mascot  of,  24,  165;  point  of 
view  of,  24;  anecdote  of,  25; 
death  of,  25;  in  I  Puritani,  29; 
in  opera  with,  36;  difficulties 
with,  41;  in  Boston  with,  44; 
farewell  performance  for,  64; 
Americanisation  of,  71;  in 
Poliuto,  72;  Gottschalk  and, 
107;  mention  of,  294,  358 

Brougham,  John,  15 

Bulow,  Von,  298 

Burnett,  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson, 
281 

Burroughs,  John,  reference  to,  288 

Butterfly,  Madame,  255 

Cabanel,  306 
Cable,  George,  281 
Callender,  May,  276,  277 
Calvd,  81;  as  Carmen,  291 
Camitte,   Matilda    Heron    in,    15; 

public     attitude     toward,     69; 

mention  of,  70;  libretto  of,  135 
Campanini,Italo,236,237,26i,295 
Capoul,  184,  236,  237,  295 
Carlton,  William,   258-261,    265, 

268,  275;  Marie  Roze  and,  290 
Carmen,  73,  91;   Minnie   Hauck 

as,   102;  Kellogg  in,  231,  236; 

in  English,  254;  Marie  Roze  as, 

290;  the  rdle  of,  291;  Calve1  as, 

291;  music  of,  305 
Carvalho,  Mme.  Miolan-,  77;  wig 

of,  82,  140;  as  Marguerite,  84 
Cary,  Annie  Louise,  193;  Kellogg 

and,  289, 292-294,  298,  304 
Castitte,  The  Rose  of,  257 
Castle,  257,  269,  270 
Catherine,  in  Star  of  the  North, 

102;  jewels  for,    104;   incident 

when  singing,  267 
Chatelet,  Theatre,  140 
Christina,  ex-Queen,  143,  144 
Clarke,  James  Freeman,  50 
Clarkson,  Bishop,  300 
Clover,  Lieutenant,  357 
Club,  Stanley,  305 
Colson,   Pauline,   tour   with,   22; 

advice     of,     26;     example     in 

costuming  of,  27;  illness  of,  27 
Combermere,     Viscountess,     125; 

anecdote  of,  128 
Comedie  Francaise,  15 


Concerts,  private,  168;  Bucking- 
ham Palace,  179-186,  302; 
Benedict's,  197;  tours,  200-203, 
208,  227-230;  trials  of,  232-234; 
in  Russia,  346 

Conklin,  Ellen,  effect  of  slavery 
on,  58,  59 

Conly,  George,  256,  258,  275 

Connaught,  Duke  of,  183,  184 

Contessa,  incident  in  Titjien's 
rdle  of,  169,  170,  239 

Cook,  W.  H.,  124 

Coquelin,  304 

Costa,  Sir  Michael,  169,  170,  194, 
238, 267 

Cotogni,  235, 337 

Coulsen,  294 

Crinkle,  Nym,  see  Wheeler 

Crispino  e  la  Comare,  91,  94; 
Cobbler  in,  94;  mention  of, 
97, 249 

Curiose,  Le  Donne,  91 

Cushman,  Charlotte,  attendance 
at  theatre  by,  33;  evening  in 
Boston  with,  50,  52;  in  Rome 
with,  160;  as  Queen  Katherine, 
270, 271 

Cusins,  176, 178 

Custcr,  57,  58 

Czar,  the,  Ronconi  and,  95; 
daughter  of,  182,  183;  signa- 
ture of,  335;  physician  of,  337; 
Nihilists  and,  338,  343;  mourn- 
ing of,  342;  sight  of,  350,  351; 
assassination  of,  354,  355 

Dahlgren,  Admiral,  183,  357 

Dame  Blanche,  La,  96 

D'Angri,  13 

Daniel  Deronda,  quotation  from, 
315-316 

Davidson,  167,  190,  195 

Davis,  Jefferson,  at  West  Point, 
19;  son  of,  19;  wife  of,  20 

Davis,  Will,  256 

Debussy,  79 

Deland,  Conly  as,  258 

de  Reszke,  Jean,  in  L'Africaine, 
40;  Sbriglia  and,  313,  314 

de  Reszke,  Josephine,  306 

Diavolo,  Fra,  16,  91;  benefit  per- 
formance of,  92, 93 ;  fondness  for, 
97;  scenes  from,  159;  Lucca  in, 
174,  249;  Conly  in,  256;  mention 
of,  261;  Habelmann  as,  269 


Index 


375 


Dickens,  house  of,  241 
Donizetti,    56;     opera     of    Betly 

by,  68;    Poliuto  by,  71;  music 

of,  80 
Donna    Anna,    role   of,   74,    137; 

Titjiens    as,     169,     170,     173; 

Kellogg  as,  249 
Doria,  Clara,  246 
Douglass,  William,  126,  203 
Due  de  Morney,  360 
Dudley,  Lord,  189 
Dufferin,  Lord  and  Lady,  353 
Dukas,  79 
Duse,  208 
Dutchman,  The  Flying,  257,  258, 

263-265 

Eames,  Mme.,  83 

Edinburgh,  Duchess  of,  182,  183 

Edward,  Miss,  121,  137 

Ehn,  Mme.,  329 

Elssler,  Fanny,  330 

Elvira,  Donna,  137,  170,  173 

Emerson,  45,  221 

Emory,  Lieutenant,  357 

Ernani,  Patti  in,  148,  155 

Errani,  1 1 

Eugenie,  Empress,  149,  150 

Evans,  Dr.,  150 

Fabri,  Count,  244 

Falstaff,  91 

Farragut,  Admiral,  157,  158 

Farrar,  Gerakline,  as  Marguerite, 

81,83,89 
Faure,    145,    147,    178,    179,   184, 

235,323 

Faust,  first  suggestion  of  Kellogg 
in,  40;  anecdote  about,  46; 
public  attitude  toward,  68; 
decision  of  Maretzek  about, 
75;  on  the  Continent,  77; 
criticism  of  78;  estimate  of  79; 
early  effect  on  public  of,  81, 
89;  Alice  Neilson  in  82;  Poliuto 
and,  88;  liberties  with  score 
of,  88,  89;  Santley  in,  132; 
French  treatment  of,  140;  in 
America,  240;  mention  of,  244, 
307;  Lucca  in,  249,  250;  Carlton 
in,  260;  Drury  Lane  and,  132, 
135,  137.  162,  174,  189,  261; 
Mike  and,  266;  Emma  Abbott 
in,  274;  testimonial,  298;  lib- 
retto of,  333;  mention  of,  359 


Fechter,  Mr.,  168 
Federici  as  Marguerite,  80 
Felina,  251-253,  331,  358 
Ferri,  tour  with,  22 ;  as  Rigoletto, 

33;  blindness  of,  33,  41 
Fidelio,  Titjiens  as,  169 
Field,  Eugene,  271 
Field,  Mrs.  Marshall,  279 
Fields,   James  T.,   home  of,  45; 

anecdote  of,  46;  friends  of,  47, 

48;  opinion  of  "copy"  of  Mrs. 

Stowe,   49;   hospitality  of,   50; 

letter  to,  89 
Fioretti,  195 
Fischoff,  326,  332 
Flotow,  opera  of  Martha  by,  73 
Flute,  playing  of,  2;  Lanier  and, 

51;  Wagner's  use  of,  52 
Flute,  The  Magic,  74, 146, 366;  song 

from  The  Star  in,  173 
Foley,  Walter,  131,  167,  236 
Foster,  Mr.,  338, 339 
Franceschetti,  322 
Frapoli,  299 
Freischutz,  Der,  254 
French,  art  of  the,  140 
Fursch-Nadi,  310 

Gaiety,  93,  94;  Italian,  160 

Gannon,  Mary,  15 

Garden,   Covent,    129,    135,    167, 

171,  172,  178,  194-196,  235 
Garden,  Mary,  artistic  spirit  of, 

40;  English  opera  and,  255 
Gazza  Ladra,  La,  166-168,  173 
Gazzaniga,  Mme.,  294 
Gerster,  303, 329 
Giatano,  Nita,  242,  243 
Gilda,  study  of  the  role  of,  29; 

appearance     in,     34,     35,     63; 

comparison  with  Marguerite  of, 

79;  Kellogg  as,  8l 
Gilder,  Jeannette,   193,  280,  282; 

Ellen  Terry  and,  283 
Gilder,     Richard    Watson,     192, 

219,221;  Mrs.,  279, 281;  studio 

of,  280-282 
Gilder,  Rodman,  281 
Gilder,  William  H.,  280 
Gilmore,  Patrick,  309 
Giovanni,  Don,  62 ;  under  Grau  in, 

74;  at  Her  Majesty's,  137,  167, 

170,  173,  174,  197,  198;  mention 

of,  249,  296,  342 
Godard,  305 


376 


Index 


Goddard,  Mr.,  190 

Goethe,  254 

Goodwin,  168,  197 

Gotterdammerung,  Die,  91 

Gottschalk,  106,  107,  295 

Gounod,  new  opera  by,  75;  as 
revolutionist,  78,  79;  mention 
of,  132;  reference  to,  133;  in 
London,  140,  240-244;  Gounod, 
Madame,  243 

Grange,  Mme.  de  la,  in  Les 
Huguenots,  13;  in  Sonnambula, 
38;  in  The  Star  of  the  North, 

102 

Grant,  General,  in  Chicago,  114, 
115;  President  and  Mrs.,  266 

Grau,  Maurice,  67;  Traviata  and, 
69;  in  Boston  with,  74,  258, 
259;  mention  of,  300;  Opera 
House,  307 

Greeley,  Horace,  funeral   of,  209 

Greenough,  Lillie,  277 

Gridley,   Lieutenant- Commander, 

35.7 
Grisi,    opportunity   to    hear,    14; 

opera    costumier    and,    85;    as 

Annetta,    94;    family    of,    158; 

story  of,  159 
Grove,  Sir  George,  262 
Gye,  Mr.,  129,  135,  171,  172 

Habelmann,     Theodor,     in     Fra 

Diavolo,  96,  269,  270 
Hall,  Dr.  John,  300 
Hamilton,  Sir  Frederick,  342 
Hamilton,  Gail,  50 
Hamlet,  in  French,  141;   Nilsson 

in,    145;    Faure   as,    147;    Mc- 

Cullough  as,  282;  mad  scene  in, 

292,329 
Handel,    Festival,    172;    Messiah 

of,    209;    and    Haydn    Society, 

298 
Hanslick,  Dr.,  195;  complimented 

by,  329-331 

Harrington,  Earl  of,  126;  ice-box 

of,  127;  daughter  of,  127;  at  the 

opera,  198 

Harte,  Bret,  niece  of,  319 
Hauck,     Minnie,    as    Prascovia, 

102,    103;    characterisation   of, 

103;  mention  of,  303 
Haute,  M.  De  la,  159 
Hawaii,  King  of,  266 
Hawthorne,  Julian,  49 


Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  48 

Helene,  La  Belle,  254 

Heron,  Matilda,  15 

Hess,  C.  D.,  256-259  benefit  of 

Kellogg-,  275 
Heurtly,  Mrs.,  190 
Hinckley,     Isabella,     41 ;     in    // 

Barbiere,  56;  in  Betly,  68, 
Hissing,  custom  of,  in  Spain,  145 
Hoey,  Mrs.  John,  15 
Hoffman,  Baron,  329,  330 
Holmes,      Oliver     Wendell,     46; 

breakfasts    with,    52;    opinion 

of  English  women  of,  53 
Hosmer,  Harriet,  160 
Howe,  Julia  Ward,  46,  49,  61 
Huger,     General    Isaac,    son    of, 

18,57 

Huguenots,  Les,  91,  174,  295,  366 

logo,  307 

Irving,  Henry,  great  strength  of, 
40;  repose  of,  234,  248,  first 
meeting  with,  282;  complaint 
of,  284;  reforms  of,  284,  285 

Jackson,  Helen  Hunt,  281 

Jaffray,  E.  S.,  322 

Jarrett,  120,  162, 16,3;  daughter  of, 
163,  164,  168,  173,  198;  Colonel 
Stebbinsand,  173;  Gounod  and, 
241;  mention  of,  249,  250,  251, 
252,  253,  294,  300,  331 

Jerome,  Leonard,  188 

Johnston,  Sir  Alan,  353 

Jordan,  Jules,  206,  207 

Juliet,  saying  of  Modjeska  about, 
70;  Patti  as,  194,  198;  Romeo 
and,  240;  Gounod  and,  244 

Karl,  Tom,  298 

Katherine,  Queen,  270,  271 

Keene,  Laura,  15 

Kellogg,  Clara  Louise,  first  ap- 
pearance of,  6;  description  as 
a  child  of,  7;  dress  of,  8,  25,  26, 
39,  40,  70,  84,  85,  135,  136,  137, 
210,  265,  347;  Muzio  and,  n, 
12,  13;  early  singers  heard  by, 
13;  histrionic  skill  of,  15,  16; 
resemblance  to  Rachel  of,  16; 
debut  as  Gilda  of,  33;  as  Mar- 
guerite, 40,  75-92;  hospitalities 
toward,  44,  45,  93,  100,  101, 
278,  279,  362,  363;  wig  of,  82- 


Index 


377 


Kellogg — Continued 

84;  in  Opera  Comique,  91-98; 
jewelry  of,  93,  104,  105,  298;  as 
Flower  Prima  Donna,  103,  202; 
Lucca  and,  245-252;  in  English 
Opera,  254-270;  favourite  flower 
of,  266;  in  "Three  Graces" 
Tour,  289-304 

Kellogg,  George,  flute  of,  2 ;  failure 
of,  9;  Irish  servants  and,  61;  in 
New  Hartford  with,  67;  story 
of,  231 

Keppel,  Colonel,  133 

Korbay,  Francis,  219 

Krauss,  307 

Kuster,  Baron,  338 

La  Farge,  John,  219,  221,  280 
L'Africaine,    de    Reszke    in,    40; 
Lucca  in,  249;  Masini  in,  341 
Lang, 190,  198 
Lanier,    Sidney,  50;  anecdote  of, 

5i 

Lascelle,  306 

Lawrence,  Alberto,  258 

Lecouvreur,  Adrienne,  282 

Leonora,  Marie  Willt  as,  152; 
Lucca  as,  179;  Morgan  and, 
269 

Le  Page,  Bastien,  281 

Leporello,    Rockitanski    as,     170 

Le  Roi  de  Lahore,  306 

Librettos,  inartistic,  255;  Emma 
Abbott  and,  274;  texts  of,  332 

Liebling,  358 

Lily  o'  KiUarney,  261,  262 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  call  for  volun- 
teers by,  54;  anecdote  of  no; 
death  of,  in;  lying-in-state  of 
112-114,  n8 

Lind,  Jenny,  5,  6,  294 

Linda  di  Chamounix,  first  public 
appearance  of  Kellogg  in,  25; 
Boston's  attitude  toward,  36; 
origin  of,  36;  story  of,  36,  37; 
costuming  of,  38,  39;  Susini, 
in,  42;  Mme.  Medori  as,  42; 
Kellogg  in  Boston  as,  43,  50, 
54,  62;  teaching  of,  63;  com- 
parison with  Marguerite  of,  79; 
Clara  Louise  Polka  and,  88; 
Patti  in,  129;  mention  of,  132, 
249;  at  Her  Majesty's,  135, 
167, 236, 238 

Liszt,  saying  of,  234 


Littlejohn,  Bishop,  300 

Lohengrin,  292 

Longfellow,  46,  47;  poems  of, 
46,  47;  anecdote  of,  47;  letter, 
by,  89;  reference  to,  221 

Lorenzo,  Conly  as,  256 

Loveday,  Mme.,  261 

Lowell,  46, 47 

Lucca,  Pauline,  Piccolomini's 
resemblance  to,  14;  travelling 
of,  28;  as  Marguerite,  82;  in 
Fra  Diavolo,  174;  at  rehearsal, 
178,  179;  at  Buckingham 
Palace,  184,  185;  at  Covent 
Garden,  196,  235;  in  America, 
240;  Kellogg  and,  245-250;  as 
Mignon,  251;  mention  of,  294, 
329 

Lucia,  Patti  in,  15,  62;  compari- 
son with  Linda  of,  73,  standing 
of,  73;  Kellogg  in  Chicago  as, 
113,  237;  role  of,  292;  Kellogg 
as,  329 

Maas,  Joseph,  256-582,  261 
Macci,  Victor,  opera  by,  68 
Macmillan,  Lady,  284 
Maddox,  194,  195,  246,  247 
Maeterlinck,    Mme.,    saying    of, 

103 

Malibran,  94 
Manchester,  Consuelo,  Duchess  of, 

184 

Mancini,  359 
Mansfield,    Richard,    mother   of, 

165 

Manzocchi,  n 
Mapleson,   Col.  J.  M.,   120,  139, 

162,    166,    168,    170,    171,   173, 

174,    198,   200,   235,   236,  241, 

301,302 
Mapleson,  Henry,  289,  290,  292- 

294,  303 

Maretzek,  Max,  at  the  Academy, 
40;  during  the  war,  55;  deci- 
sion with  regard  to  Faust  of,  75, 
77,  78;  Colonel  Stebbins  and, 
85;  Mazzoleni  and,  86;  Faust 
and,  87,  88;  benefit  custom 
and,  91,  92,  119;  in  Philadelphia 
with,  201;  saying  of,  215; 
management  of,  240 

Marguerite,  interpretation  of, 
42;  estimate  of,  80-84,  333; 
Xilsson  as,  82,  129;  costume 


378 


Index 


Marguerite — Continued 

of,  84,  85;  Patti  as,  in  France, 

140,  141;  reference  to,  243,  263; 

Lucca    as,    249,    250;    Kellogg 

as,  359 

Maria  de  Rohan,  Rovere  in,  95 
Mario,    Grisi    and,    14;    mention 

of,  147,  167,  185,  195,  196 
Martha,    62,  73,   74;    comparison 

with       Marguerite      of,       79; 

Faust     and,     88;     as     Opera 

Comique,  91;  at  Her  Majesty's, 

135;    Nilsson  as,  145;   Kellogg 

as,  249,  261,  329 
Martin,  Mrs.,  202-207 
Masaniello,  96 
Masini,  338,  340,  341 
Materna,  Mme.,  329, 331 
Matthews,  Brander,  wife  of,  69; 

reception  by  father  of,  100,  101 
Maurel,  141,  295,  306,  307 
Mazzoleni  as  Faust,  86,  87 
McCook,  Alec,  18,  57 
McCreary,  Lieutenant,  1 8,  57 
McCullough,  John,  282,  300 
McHenry,  143,  145,  148,  158,  167, 

190, 197, 198 
McKenzie,  Sir  Edward,  190,  300, 

301 

McVickar,  Commodore,  121,  126 
Medori,    Mme.,    as    Linda,    42; 

in  Don  Giovanni,  74 
Meister,  Wilhelm,  251,  252 
Meister singer,  Die,  91 
Melodies,  negro,  i,  9, 117, 146, 305, 

357 

Menier,  Chocolat,  243, 309 
Meyerbeer,    90;    craze    for,    101; 

a  song  of,   102;  son-in-law  of, 

328 
Mignon,  effect  on  audience  of,  59; 

Polonaise  from,    183,  229,  305, 

358;    Lucca    and    Kellogg    in, 

251;     in     English,     257,     260; 

Gary    as,    293;    cast    of,    298; 

Kellogg     as,     329,     330,     331; 

reference  to,  370 
Mike,  266 

Millet,  1 1 ;  son  of,  282 
Mind,  sub-conscious,  13;  workings 

of  the,  35,  169,  216 
Minstrels,  negro,  8 
Mireille,  240, 245 
Mistral,  240 
Modjeska,    Helena,    in    Adrienne 


Lecouvreur,  59;  in  Camille  69; 
saying  of,  70;  Okakura  and, 
281;  Kellogg  and,  282,  283; 
custom  of,  352 

Moncrieff,  Mrs.,  243 

Morelli,  294 

Morgan,  Wilfred,  258,  259,  269 

Mother,  first  mention  of,  2,  3,  4; 
attitude  toward  theatre  of, 
30,  3 1 ;  presence  at  performance 
of  Gilda  of,  35;  in  Boston  with, 
44,  52;  in  New  Hartford  with, 
67;  Faust  and,  81;  character 
of,  108;  anecdote  of,  128;  in 
England,  137;  in  Paris,  139, 
143;  diary  of,  I54-I57,  163,  164, 
166-168,  173, 174, 178, 197,  198, 
308,  326;  mention  of,  186,  188, 
307,  190,  194,  195,  200,  252,  259, 
286, 304,  334;  Eugene  Field  and, 
271;  in  Russia,  349,  352-356; 
health  of,  365 

Moulton,  melody  of  Beware  by, 

175 

Moulton,  Mrs.,  277 
Mowbray,  J.  P.,  see  Wheeler 
Mozart,    operas   of,    74;    English 
and,   136;    arias  of,   146;  with 
Titjiens  in  operas  of,  169;  all- 
star  casts  of,  170;  music  of,  366 
Munkacsy,  219 
Murska,  Mile.,  lima  de,  296 
Muzio,    n ;    appearance    of,    12; 
opinion  of,  17;  concert  tour  of 
Kellogg  with,  22;  Italian  tradi- 
tions   and,    66;    concert    tour 
under,  72;  polka  by,  88 


Napoleon  III,  148, 149 

Negroes;  treatment  of,  58;  in  New 
York  during  the  war,  60;  discus- 
sions regarding  the,  60;  anti- 
negro  riots,  323 

Neilson,  Adelaide,  247 

Neilson,  Alice,  in  Faust,  82 

Nevin,  322 

Newcastle,  Duchess  of,  184,  188, 
197 

Newcastle,  Duke  of,  100,  125; 
in  box  of,  146,  167,  168,  173, 
174,  188,  189,  191,  192;  pin  of 
the,  193,  194,  197,  198,  235 

Newson,  6,  7 

Nicolini,  130,  148,  184,  185 


Index 


379 


Night,  Queen  of  the,  Nilsson  as, 
146 

Nilsson,  Christine,  as  Marguerite, 
82;  in  London,  129,  131,  132, 
137,  169,  173.  235;  as  Martha, 
145;  voice  of,  146,  147;  super- 
stition of,  165,  1 66;  in  opera 
with,  169;  Sir  Michael  Costa 
and,  170;  at  Buckingham 
Palace,  184;  friend  of,  190; 
reference  to,  196,  239,  252,  261, 
294,  295,  326, 329 

Noces  de  Jeannette,  Les,  29,  62; 
libretto  of,  68 

Nordica,  Lillian,  309,  310;  Nevin's. 
song  and,  322;  in  Russia  with, 

337»  34I>  347>  34& 
Norma,  Grisi  as,  158;  reference  to, 

252 
Nozze  di  Figaro,  Le,  170,  171,  174, 

197,  198,  249,  261 

Oh,  had  I  Jubal's  Lyre!  172 
Okakura,  219-222,  281 
Oldenburg,  Prince,  346 
Olin,  Mrs.   Stephen  Henry,  276, 

277 

Opera,  The  Beggar's,  258 

Opera  bouffe,  90 

Op6ra  comique,  90,  91,  97;  of 
Paris,  236 

Opera,  traditions  of,  12,  77,  79, 
263,  277;  necessities  of,  34; 
effect  of  war  on,  55,  56;  houses 
in  America  for,  68;  early  cus- 
toms of,  84;  innovations  of, 
87;  benefit  custom  of,  91; 
Her  Majesty's,  120,  129,  136, 
171,  178,  235;  French,  140, 
141;  English,  254-258,  260-303; 
translations  of,  255,  256,  260, 
261;  Strakosch  and,  303; 
Imperial,  326:  in  Petersburg, 
334-342;  preparation  for,  367; 
province  of  Italian,  370 

Ophelia,  Modjeska  as,  282;  Kel- 
logg as,  293 

Othello,  Salvini  as,  283;  in  Munich 

3«7 

Oudin,  Eugene,  277 
Oxenford,  262 

Palace,     Buckingham,     176-179; 

concerts  at,  179-186,  302 
Palace,  Crystal,  172,  174,  209 


Palmer,  Anna,  1 1 

Paloma,  La,  249 

Parker,  Minnie,  276,  277 

Parodi,  294 

Pasquale,  Don,  96 

Patey,  Mme.,  174 

Patti,  Adelina,  5 ;  early  appearance 
of,  15;  as  Marguerite,  82;  voice 
of,  129, 130,  132, 323;  in  London 
77,  129,  132,  135,  184,  185, 
I95~I98,  235;  sister  of,  129;  in 
Paris  with,  308;  comparison 
with,  330;  questioning  of,  365 

Patti,  Carlotta,  295 

Paul  and  Virginia,  295 

Peakes,  257 

Pease,  Miss  Alta,  358 

Pergolese,  opera  of  La  Serva 
Padrona  by,  14 

Peto,  Sir  Morton,  banquet  of,  99 

Petrelli,  272 

Petrovitch,  338 

Phillips,  Adelaide,  as  Maddalena, 
41;  as  Pierotto,  41,  248 

Photography,  new  effects  in,  208 

Piccolomini,  14,  74 

Pinchot,    Gifford,    sister   of,   353 

Pine,  Louisa,  13 

Pitch,  absolute,  4,  165,  267; 
standard  of,  231 

Plancon,  312 

Plantagenet,    Lady    Edith,    297 

Poliuto,  62;  plot  of,  71;  Faust 
and,  88 

Polka,  Clara  Louise,  88 

Pond,  Major,  360, 361 

Pope  Pius  IX.,  160 

Porter,  Ella,  1 1 ;  in  Paris,  84 

Porter,  General  Horace,  19,  20,  57 

Prascovia,  Minnie  Hauck  as,  102, 
103 

Press,  criticisms  of  the,  27,  35, 
39,  42,  68,  70,  75,  78,  88,  89,  94, 
97,  133.  !35,  164,  200,  211,  215, 
239,  240,  250,  252, 256, 258, 271, 
279,  291,  358;  standing  of  the, 
328;  in  Vienna,  331;  censorship 
in  Russia  of  the,  336;  interview, 
366 

Public,  English,  136,  194,  237; 
American,  229,  230,  238;  rival 
factions  of  the,  250;  character- 
istics of  the,  264,  296;  Peters- 
burg, 339;  Boston,  358;  charm 
of  the,  365, 372 


38o 


Index 


Puritani,  I,  Brignoli  in,  29;  Kel- 
logg in,  54,  62,  63 

Quinn,  Dr.,  168,  191,  235 

Rachel,  16 

Racine,  306 

Rampolla,  Cardinal,  161 

Ramsay,  Captain,  357 

Ramsay,  Col.,  300 

Randegger,  195 

Rathbone,  General,  300 

Reed,  Miss  Fanny,  in  Boston,  45; 

in  New  York,  277,  278 
Reeves,  Sims,  174,  175 
Reggimento,  La  Figlia  del,  56,  58, 

62;  at  close  of  Civil  War,  114; 

Lucca  in,  249 
Renaud  in  opera,  40,  265 
Rice  brothers,  94 
Rigoletto,  29,  34,   36;   opinion  of 

Boston  of,  36;  origin  of,  36,  62; 

meaning  of,  81,  167;  Masini  as, 

341 

Riston,  1 6 
Rivarde,  1 1 

Robert  le  Diable,  86,  201,  332 
Robertson,  Agnes,  15 
Robertson,    Madge    (Mrs.    Ken- 
dall), 284 

Robin,  Theodore,  304-306 
Rockitanski,  170 
Ronalds,    Mrs.    Peter,   276,   277, 

279 
Ronconi,  94;  The  Czar  and,  95; 

in    Fra   Diavolo,   95;    anecdote 

of,  96 

Rosa,  Carl,  101 
Rosa,    Euphrosyne   Parepa,    101, 

209, 262 

Rosina,  91,  93,  96,  97,  137 
Rossini,  13,  97;  reference  to,  133; 

English    and,     136;    traditions 

of,  277;  Nordica  and,  310 
Rossmore,  Lady,  192,  198 
Rota,  261 
Rothschild,  Baron  Alfred  de,  194, 

198,235 
Rovere,  94 
Roze,  Marie,  236,  261,  289,  290, 

292, 293,298 
Rubenstein,  246, 248 
Rudersdorf,  Mme.  Erminie,  165 
Ryan,  Mr.,  305 
Ryloff,  269 


Salome,  suppression  of,  69,  254 

Salvini,  283 

Sampson,  Mr.,  190,  198 

Sandford,  Wright,  126,  203 

Santley,  Ronconi  and,  95;  as 
Valentine,  132;  kindness  of, 
134;  as  Almaviva,  137,  167,  168, 
170,  173,  174,  184,  198 

Sanz,  248,  249 

Sargent,  281 

Sbriglia,  310-313;  Jean  de  Reszke 
and,  313,  314,  367-369 

Scalchi,  Sofia,  172,  185;  in  Peters- 
burg, 33  7 

Scarborough,  Bishop,  300 

Scola,  lessons  in  acting  from,  29, 
38 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  261 

Sebasti,  161 

Seguin,  Stella,  257,  258 

Seguin,  Ted,  258 

Sembrich,  Marcella,  337 

Semiramide,  171,  277,  342 

Senta,  263-265,  292 

Serenade,  The  Persian,  223 

Shakespeare  in  music,  141 

Sherman,  General,  in  Chicago,  114 

Siebel,  Miss  Sulzer  as,  87 

Singing,  methods  of,  5;  Grisi  and, 
I58,  159;  prime  donne  and,  231; 
early,  307;  Nordica  and,  310; 
Sbriglia  and,  311-321,  367-369; 
traditions  of,  366 

Sinico,  Mme.,  137 

Sinnett,  A.  P.,  189 

Slezak,  312 

Smith,  Mark,  246 

Society,  Arion,  206 

Somerset,  Duchess  of,  121-124; 
letters  by,  125;  beadwork  of, 
126,  137, 144, 197,  168,  188,  197 

Sonnambula,  La,  54,  62-64;  teach- 
ing of,  65,  66;  aria  from  67; 
Murska  in,  296 

Sonnenthal,  330 

Southern,  the  elder,  15 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott,  50 

Stabat  Mater,  310 

Stackpoole,  Major,  192,  197,  198 

Stage,  attitude  toward,  1 1 ;  Italian 
attitude  toward,  12;  English 
precedent  of,  12;  superstitions 
of,  24,  36,  165;  primitive  con- 
ditions of,  25,  27,  28,  37,  38, 87; 
in  France,  140 


Index 


381 


Stanley,  189 

Star  of  the  North,  The,  102; 
flute  song  of,  173;  in  English, 
257,  266;  quartette  in,  267 

Star,  The  Evening,  230 

Stebbins,  Colonel  Henry  G.,  10; 
daughters  of,  n;  home  of,  16; 
sister  of,  33;  Faust  and,  85; 
in  England,  122-124,  137<  m 
Scotland,  131;  in  France,  155, 
158;  daughter  of,  160;  friendship 
of,  171,  173,  174,  197,  198 

Stevens,  Mrs.  Paran,  in  Boston, 
44,45,  278;  sister  of,  277 

Stewart,  Jules,  306 

Stigelli.33,71,294 

Stowe,    Harriet    Beecher,   46,   49 

Strakosch,  Maurice,  130,  148; 
Napoleon  and,  149;  at  Coven t 
Garden  with,  194,  198;  Patti 
and,  advice  of,  294;  methods 
of,  302 

Strakosch,  Max,  200,  201,  204, 
205,  240,  289, 292, 294-296,  300, 

303, 359 
Strauss,  79, 254 
Sulzer,  Miss,  87 
Summer,  The  Last  Rose  of,  135 
Susanna,  Kellogg  as,  170,  240 
Susini,  name  of,  22;  as  the  Baron 
in  Linda,  41;  wife  of,  41;  sense 
of  humour  of,  42 ;  salute  of  Grant 
and  Sherman  by,  115;  mention 
of,  294 


Tadema,  Alma,  191 

Tagliapietra,  358 

Talisman,  The,  261,297 

Talleyrand,  Marquis  de,  157,  158 

Tannhduser,  140,  230 

Tennants,  189 

Terry,    Ellen,   234,   248;   opinion 

of,  283, 284 
Thalberg,    106;    Strakosch    and, 

294 
Theatre,     in     England,     131;     in 

France,  140,  141 ;  Her  Majesty's 

!89,    235;    traditions    of    the, 

366 

Theatre,  Booth's,  267 
Theatre  Comique,  307 
Theatre  Francais,  265,  306 
Theatre  Lyrique,  145 
Thomas,  Ambrose,  146 


Thomas,  Theodore,  at  the 
Academy,  40;  in  Chicago,  321 

Thomaschewski,  Dr.,  337,  347 

Thompson  troupe,  Lydia,  69 

Thorough-base,  2 

Thursby,  Emma,  298 

Til  ton, 'Mrs.  Elizabeth,  214 

Titjiens,  in  London,  77,  129,  132, 
137,  139,  l?o,  173;  Pet  of,  168, 
169,  178,  179,  185,  196,  235, 
239, 302 

Traviata,  Piccolomini  in,  14;  the 
part  of  Violetta  in,  15,  62; 
libretto  of,  68;  public  opinion 
of,  69,  70;  Patti  in,  130;  at  Her 
Majesty's,  135,  164;  costume  in, 
136;  rehearsal  of,  163;  successof, 
164;  Lucca  in,  249;  interpreta- 
tion of,  291;  Kellogg  in  329, 
338,  342;  solo  from,  357 

Trebelli-Bettini,  236 

Trentini,  Emma,  superstition  of, 
166 

Trobriand,  Baron  de,  opinions 
and  stories  of,  16 

Trollope,  Anthony,  46,  48 

Trovatore,  Mme.  de  la  Grange  in, 
13;  Marie  Willt  in,  153;  Lucca 
in,  179;  Kellogg  in,  201,  249, 
260,  261,  329;  Carlton  in  268; 

Tschaikowsky,  306 

Turner,  Charles,  261 

Valentine,  Carlton  as,  260;  Kel- 
logg as,  295 

Vanderbilt,  Frederick  W.,  300 

Vanderbilt,  William  H.,  197, 
285,  286 

Vane-Tempest,  Lady  Susan,  192, 

197 

Van  Zandt,  Miss,  307 
Van  Zandt,  Mrs.,  257 
Verdi,  mention  of,  n;  Falstaff  of, 

91;  reference  to,  133,  292,  298; 

meeting  with,  307, 308;  criticism 

of,  33 1 

Vernon,  Mrs.,  15 
Victoria,  Queen,  177,  186,  301 
Villiers,  Colonel,  353 
Violetta,    15;    character    of,    70; 

gowns  of  70;  jewels  for,   104; 

Patti  as,  130;  costume  of,  135; 

Kellogg  as,  338;  solo  of,  357 
Vogel,  307 
Voltaire,  house  of,  143 


Index 


Wagner,  fondness  o!  Kellogg  for 
music  of,  30;  use  of  flute  by,  52; 
as  a  revolutionist,  78,  263,  264, 
265;  reviewers  and,  88;  mention 
of,  90,  292;  French  idea  of, 
140,  253;  von  Bulow  and,  298; 
Hanslick  and,  329, 330 

Walcot,  Charles,  15 

Wales,  Prince  of,  133,  164,  177, 
178,  180-183;  daughter  of,  190, 
192,  301.302 

Wales,  Princess  of,  178,  180-183, 
302 

Wallack,  John,  exclamation  of,  16 

Wallack,  Lester,  300 

Waltz,  The  Kellogg,  135,  138 

War,  Civil,  West  Point  before 
the,  19;  beginning  of  the,  54; 
attitude  of  public  toward,  55; 
riots  in  New  York  during,  59- 
61;  opera  during  the,  74,  75; 
close  of,  no;  after  the,  201; 
reference  to,  233,  359,  360 

Wehli,  James  M.,  201 

Welldon,  Georgina,  241-243 


Werther,  91 

West  Point,  primitive  conditions 

of,  17;  conspiracies  at,  18 
Wheeler,  A.  C.,  42,  75 
White,  Stanford,  280 
Whitney,  M.  W.,  298 
Widor,  305 
Wieniawski,  246 
Wig,  for  Marguerite,  82-84,  140; 

of  Leuta,  265 
Wilde,  Oscar,  254,  255 
Willt,  Marie,  anecdote  of,  153 
Witherspoon,  Herbert,  in  Norfolk, 

9;  in  New  Hartford,  67 
Wood,  Mrs.  John,  15 
Worth,  creations  of,  136,  278,  279, 

347, 348 
Wyckoff,  Chevalier,  148,  188 

Yeats,  Edmund,  246,  247 
Young,  Brigham,  298 

Zerlina,  Piccolomini  as,  14;  Kel- 
logg as,  74,  9^-93,  97, 137,  170; 
country  of,  159;  Lucca  as,  249 


Jl  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogue 
on  application 


"A  grab'bag  of  fascinations,  for  open  the  pages 
where  one  wilt,  each  chapter  has  its  racy  anecdote 
and  astonishing  story." 


My  Autobiography 


Madame  Judith 

of  the  Comedie  Francaise 

Edited  by  Paul  G'Sell 
Translated  by  Mrs.  Arthur  Bull 

With  Photogravure  Frontispiece.    $3.50  net 
By  mail,  $3.75 

Madame  Judith  was  not  only  a  stage  rival  but  a  close  friend 
of  the  great  French  actress,  Rachel,  and  the  intimate  of  Victor 
Hugo,  Alfred  de  Musset,  Alexandre  Dumas,  Prince  Napoleon, 
and  many  other  men  of  letters  and  rank. 

Madame  Judith's  memories  extend  over  an  intensely  in- 
teresting period  of  French  history,  commencing  with  the 
Revolution  that  ushered  in  the  Second  Empire,  and  ending  with 
the  foundation  of  the  Republic  after  the  Franco-Prussian  War. 

Famous  actors  and  actresses,  poets,  novelists,  dramatists, 
members  of  the  imperial  family,  statesmen,  and  minor  actors  in 
the  drama  of  life  flit  across  the  canvas,  their  personalities  being 
vividly  realized  by  some  significant  anecdotes  or  telling  charac- 
terizations. 

Kind-hearted,  clear-headed,  and  brilliantly  gifted,  Madame 
Judith  led  an  active  and  fascinating  life,  and  it  is  to  her  credit 
that  while  she  does  not  hesitate  to  tell  of  the  weaknesses  of 
others,  she  is  equally  ready  to  acknowledge  her  own. 

New  York        G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons        London 


The  Life  of 

Henry  Labouchere 

By  Algar  Labouchere  Thorold 

Authorized  Edition.    2    vols.     With    6    Photo- 
gravure Illustrations 

The  authorized  edition  has  been  prepared  by  the 
nephew  of  Mr.  Labouchere,  who  for  the  last  ten  years 
has  been  a  close  neighbor  of,  and  in  intimate  and 
personal  relation  with  him.  Mr.  Labouchere  frequently 
communicated  to  Mr.  Thorold  many  details  of  his  early 
life,  and  discussed  with  him  his  numerous  activities  with 
great  freedom.  Mr.  Thorold  has,  furthermore,  sole 
access  to  a  voluminous  correspondence,  including  letters 
from  King  Edward  VII.  when  Prince  of  Wales,  Mr. 
Gladstone,  Lord  Morley,  Sir  William  Harcourt,  Mr. 
Parnell,  Lord  Randolph  Churchill,  and  Sir  Henry 
Campbell-Bannerman,  which  shed  a  new  ard  un- 
expected light  upon  his  political  and  personal  relations 
with  the  events  and  people  of  his  time,  in  particular  his 
connection  with  the  Radical  Party  over  a  period  of  a 
considerable  number  of  years.  His  life  as  a  war  cor- 
respondent during  the  siege  of  Paris  and  his  action  in 
connection  with  the  Pamell  Commission,  culminating  in 
the  dramatic  confession  of  Pigott,  will  be  treated  in  full 
detail.  As  is  well-known  Mr.  Labouchere  was  the 
founder  and  first  editor  of  Truth,  that  unique  produc- 
tion of  modern  journalism;  and  much  new  and  interesting 
information  concerning  the  foundation  and  early  days  of 
this  remarkable  journal  will  be  brought  before  the 
public. 

New  York  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  London 


Woman's  Defense 


My  Own  Story 


Louisa  of  Tuscany 

Ex-Crown  Princess  of  Saxony 

With  19  Illustrations  from  Original  Photographs 
8°.     $3.50  net.     (By  mail,  $3.75) 

In  this  volume  Princess  Louisa  gives  for  the 
first  time  the  authentic  inside  history  of  the  events 
that  led  to  her  sensational  escape  from  the  Court 
of  Saxony  and  her  meeting  with  Monsieur  Giron, 
with  whom  the  tongue  of  scandal  had  associated  her 
name.  It  is  a  story  of  Court  intrigue  that  reads 
like  romance. 

"  As  the  story  of  a  woman's  life,  as  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  private  affairs  of  Royal  houses,  we  have 
had  nothing  more  intimate,  more  scandalous,  or 
more  readable  than  this  very  frank  story." 

Miss  Jeannette  L.  Gilder  in  "  The  Reader." 

'  Frank,  free,  amazingly  intimate,  refreshing. 
.  .  .  She  has  spared  nobody  from  kings  and 
kaisers  to  valets  and  chambermaids." 

London  Morning  Post. 

"  The  Princess  is  a  decidedly  vivacious  writer, 
and  she  does  not  mince  words  in  describing  the 
various  royalties  by  whom  she  was  surrounded. 
Some  of  her  pictures  of  Court  life  will  prove  a 
decided  revelation  to  most  readers."  —  N.  Y.  Times. 

New  York        G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons        London 


A  STARTLING  BOOK! 

My   Past 

Reminiscences  of  the  Courts  of  Austria  and  of  Bavaria 
By  the  Countess  Marie  Larisch 

Nee  Baroness  Von  Wallersee 

Daughter  of  Duke  Ludwig  and  Niece  of  the  Late  Empress  Elizabeth  of 

Austria 

8°.     With  21  Illustrations  from  Original  Photographs 
$3.50  net.     By  mail,  $3.75 

The  True  Story  of  the  Tragic  Death  of  Qudolph, 
Crown  Prince  of  Austria 

The  author  was  the  favourite  niece  of  the  Empress 
Elizabeth  of  Austria  and  enjoyed  her  aunt's  complete 
trust.  The  Empress  confided  to  her  mauy  circum- 
stances which  this  cautious  ruler  withheld  from  others 
close  to  her  person.  Her  station  at  the  Austrian  Court 
has  enabled  her  to  tell  many  intimate  and  curiosity- 
arousing  anecdotes  concerning  the  noble  families  of 
Europe. 

Interesting  and  full  of  glamour  as  her  life  was, 
however,  her  place  in  history  is  assured  primarily 
through  her  inadvertent  connection  with  the  amour 
which  Crown  Prince  Rudolph  of  Austria  carried  on 
with  the  Baroness  Mary  Vetsera,  and  which  culminated 
in  the  tragic  death  of  the  lovers  at  Meyerling. 

"Jin  amazing  chronicle    of   imperial    and 
royal  scandals,  which  spares  no  member  of  the 
two  august  houses  to  which  she  is  related." 
N.  Y.  Tribune. 

New  York  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  London 


l.LZ 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000146768     7 


Music 
Library 


